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THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


Presented,  in  1929  by 
George  William  Myers 
Class  of  1888 


E¥! 


GE 


<S57v 

1877 


01 


ETC., 

lied 


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at  Caffcen’s  Book  Stare. 


' 


The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 


BY 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  & Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  & Co. 

1877- 


University  Press: 
Welch,  Bigelow,  and  Company, 
Cambridge. 


<g>'£.*5 

Grxov\  v 


THE 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


A TALE. 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  HIMSELF. 

Sperate  miseri,  cavete  felices. 
Salisbury  : 

Printed  by  B.  Collins, 

For  F.  Newbery,  in  Pater-Noster-Row,  London. 


MDCCLXVI. 


2 vols.  12  mo. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


HERE  are  an  hundred  faults  in  this 
Thing,  and  an  hundred  things  might  he 
said  to  prove  them  beauties.  But  it  is 
needless.  A book  may  be  amusing  with  numerous 
errors,  or  it  may  be  very  dull  without  a single  ab- 
surdity. The  hero  of  this  piece  unites  in  himself 
the  three  greatest  characters  upon  earth ; he  is  a 
priest,  an  husbandman,  and  the  father  of  a family. 
He  is  drawn  as  ready  to  teach,  and  ready  to  obey ; 
as  simple  in  affluence,  and  majestic  in  adversity. 
In  this  age  of  opulence  and  refinement,  whom  can 
such  a character  please  ? Such  as  are  fond  of  high 
life,  will  turn  with  disdain  from  the  simplicity  of 
his  country  fireside.  Such  as  mistake  ribaldry  for 
humor,  will  find  no  wit  in  his  harmless  conversa- 
tion ; and  such  as  have  been  taught  to  deride  reli- 
gion, will  laugh  at  one  whose  chief  stores  of  comfort 
arc  drawn  from  futurity. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH* 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  The  Description  of  the  Family  of  Wakefield,  in 
which  a Kindred  Likeness  prevails,  as  well  of 
Minds  as  of  Persons 1 

II.  Family  Misfortunes.  The  Loss  of  Fortune  only 

serves  to  increase  the  Pride  of  the  Worthy  . . 6 

III.  A Migration.  The  Fortunate  Circumstances  of 
our  Lives  are  generally  found  at  last  to  be  of 


our  own  procuring 11 

IV.  A Proof  that  even  the  humblest  Fortune  may  • 
grant  Happiness,  which  depends  not  on  Cir- 
cumstances but  Constitution 20 

V.  A new  and  great  Acquaintance  introduced. 
What  we  place  most  Hopes  upon,  generally 
proves  most  fatal  25 


VI.  The  Happiness  of  a Country  Fireside 30 

VII.  A Town  Wit  Described.  The  Dullest  Fellows  may 

learn  to  be  Comical  for  a Night  or  two  ...  35 

VIII.  An  Amour  which  promises  little  Good  Fortune, 

yet  may  be  productive  of  much 41 

IX.  Two  Ladies  of  great  Distinction  introduced.  Su- 
perior Finery  ever  seems  to  confer  Superior 
Breeding 49 


Vlll 


CONTENTS . 


X.  The  Family  endeavors  to  cope  with  their  Bet- 

ters.— The  Miseries  of  the  Poor  when  they 
attempt  to  appear  above  their  Circumstances  54 

XI.  The  Family  still  resolve  to  hold  up  their  Heads  60 

XII.  Fortune  seems  resolved  to  humble  the  Family 

of  Wakefield.  — Mortifications  are  often 
more  painful  than  real  Calamities  o . . 66 

XIII.  Mr.  Burchell  is  found  to  be  an  Enemy  •,  for 

he  has  the  Confidence  to  give  Disagree- 
able Advice 73 

XIY.  Fresh  Mortifications,  or  a Demonstration  that 

seeming  Calamities  may  be  real  Blessings  . 78 

XV.  All  Mr.  Burchell’s  Yillany  at  once  detected. 

— The  Folly  of  being  Over-wise  ....  86 

XVI.  The  Family  use  Art,  which  is  opposed  with 

still  greater 93 

XVII.  Scarcely  any  Virtue  found  to  resist  the  Power 

of  long  and  pleasing  Temptation  ....  100 

XVIII.  The  Pursuit  of  a Father  to  reclaim  a Lost 


Child  to  Virtue 110 

XIX.  The  Description  of  a Person  discontented  with 
the  Present  Government,  and  apprehensive 
of  the  loss  of  our  Liberties  116 


XX.  The  History  of  a Philosophic  Vagabond  pur- 
suing Novelty,  but  losing  Content  . . . 127 

XXI.  The  short  continuance  of  Friendship  amongst 
the  Vicious,  which  is  coeval  only  with  Mu- 
tual Satisfaction 145 

XXII.  Offences  are  easily  pardoned  where  there  is 

Love  at  bottom  156 

XXIII.  None  but  the  Guilty  can  be  long  and  com- 
pletely miserable 161 

XXIV.  Fresh  Calamities 167 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


> 


XXY.  No  Situation,  however  wretched  it  seems,  but 

has  some  sort  of  Comfort  attending  it  . . 173 

XXYI.  A Reformation  in  the  Gaol.  — To  make  Laws 
complete  they  should  reward  as  well  as 
punish 179 

XXVII.  The  same  subject  continued 186 

XXVIII.  Happiness  and  Misery  rather  the  result  of 
Prudence  than  of  Virtue  in  this  Life.  Tem- 
poral Evils  or  .Felicities  being  regarded  by 
Heaven  as  Things  merely  in  themselves 
trifling,  and  unworthy  its  Care  in  the  dis- 
tribution   192 


XXIX.  The  Equal  Dealings  of  Providence  demonstrat- 
ed with  regard  to  the  Happy  and  the  Mis- 
erable here  below.  That  from  the  nature 
of  Pleasure  and  Pain,  the  Wretched  must 
be  repaid  the  Balance  of  their  Sufferings 
in  the  Life  hereafter 205 

XXX.  Happier  Prospects  begin  to  appear.  Let  us 
be  inflexible,  and  Fortune  will  at  last 
change  in  our  Favor 211 

XXXI.  Former  Benevolence  now  repaid  with  unex- 
pected Interest 221 


XXXII.  The  Conclusion 


239 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

— ♦ — 

CHAPTER  I. 

The  Description  of  the  Family  of  Wakefield, 

IN  WHICH  A KINDRED  LlIvENESS  PREVAILS,  AS 

well  of  Minds  as  of  Persons. 

WAS  ever  of  opinion,  that  the  honest 
man  who  married  and  brought  up  a 
large  family,  did  more  service  than  he 
who  continued  single  and  only  talked 
of  population.  From  this  motive,  I had  scarce 
taken  orders  a year,  before  I began  to  think  seri- 
ously of  matrimony,  and  chose  my  wife,  as  she  did 
her  wedding-gown,  not  for  a fine  glossy  surface, 
but  such  qualities  as  would  wear  well.  To  do 
her  justice  she  was  a good-natured  notable  woman  ; 
and  as  for  breeding,  there  were  few  country  ladies 
who  could  show  more.  She  could  read  any  Eng- 
lish book  without  much  spelling ; but  for  pick- 
ling, preserving,  and  cookery  none  could  excel  her. 
She  prided  herself  also  upon  being  an  excellent 
contriver  in  housekeeping ; though  I could  never 
find  that  we  grew  richer  with  all  her  contrivances. 

However,  we  loved  each  other  tenderly,  and  our 

i 


2 THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

fondness  increased  as  we  grew  old.  There  was, 
in  fact,  nothing  that  could  make  us  angry  with 
the  world  or  each  other.  We  had  an  elegant 
house,  situated  in  a fine  country,  and  a good 
neighborhood.  The  year  was  spent  in  a moral  or 
rural  amusement ; in  visiting  our  rich  neighbors, 
and  relieving  such  as  were  poor.  We  had  no 
revolutions  to  fear,  nor  fatigues  to  undergo;  ail 
our  adventures  were  by  the  fireside,  and  all  our 
migrations  from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown. 

As  we  lived  near  the  road,  we  often  had  the 
traveller  or  stranger  visit  us  to  taste  our  goose- 
berry-wine, for  which  we  had  great  reputation ; 
and  I profess,  with  the  veracity  of  an  historian, 
that  I never  knew  one  of  them  find  fault  with  it. 
Our  cousins  too,  even  to  the  fortieth  remove,  all 
remembered  their  affinity,  without  any  help  from 
the  herald’s  office,  and  came  very  frquently  to 
see  us.  Some  of  them  did  us  no  great  honor  by 
these  claims  of  kindred  ; as  we  had  the  blind,  the 
maimed,  and  the  halt  amongst  the  number.  How- 
ever, my  wife  always  insisted  that  as  they  were 
the  same  flesh  and  blood,  they  should  sit  with  us  at 
the  same  table.  So  that  if  we  had  not  very  rich, 
we  generally  had  very  happy  friends  about  us  ; 
for  this  remark  will  hold  good  through  life,  that 
the  poorer  the  guest,  the  better  pleased  he  ever  is 
with  being  treated : and  as  some  men  gaze  with 
admiration  at  the  colors  of  a tulip,  or  the  wing  of 
a butterfly,  so  I was  by  nature  an  admirer  of  happy 
human  faces.  However,  when  any  one  of  our  re- 
lations was  found  to  be  a person  of  a very  bad 
character,  a troublesome  guest,  or  one  we  desired 
to  get  rid  of,  upon  his  leaving  my  house,  I ever 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


3 

took  care  to  lend  him  a riding-coat,  or  a pair  of 
boots,  or  sometimes  a horse  of  small  value,  and  I 
always  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  he  never 
came  back  to  return  them.  By  this  the  house 
was  cleared  of  such  as  we  did  not  like  ; but  never 
was  the  family  of  Wakefield  known  to  turn  the 
traveller  or  the  poor  dependant  out  of  doors. 

Thus  we  lived  several  years  in  a state  of  much 
happiness,  not  but  that  we  sometimes  had  those 
little  rubs  which  Providence  sends  to  enhance  the 
value  of  its  favors.  My  orchard  was  often  robbed 
by  school-boys,  and  my  wife’s  custards  plundered 
by  the  cats  or  the  children.  The  ’Squire  would 
sometimes  fall  asleep  in  the  most  pathetic  parts  of 
my  sermon,  or  his  lady  return  my  wife’s  civilities 
at  church  with  a mutilated  courtesy.  But  we 
soon  got  over  the  uneasiness  caused  by  such  acci- 
dents, and  usually  in  three  or  four  days  began  to 
wonder  how  they  vexed  us. 

My  children,  the  offspring  of  temperance,  as  they 
were  educated  without  softness,  so  they  were  at 
once  well  formed  and  healthy  ; my  sons  hardy  and 
active,  my  daughters  beautiful  and  blooming. 
When  I stood  in  the  midst  of  the  little  circle, 
which  promised  to  be  the  supports  of  my  declining 
age,  I could  not  avoid  repeating  the  famous  story 
of  Count  Abensberg,  who,  in  Henry  the  Second’s 
progress  through  Germany,  while  other  courtiers 
came  with  their  treasures,  brought  his  thirty-two 
children,  and  presented  them  to  his  sovereign  as 
the  most  valuable  offering  he  had  to  bestow.  In 
this  manner,  though  I had  but  six,  I considered 
them  as  a very  valuable  present  made  to  my  coun- 
try, and  consequently  looked  upon  it  as  my  debtor. 


4 THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

Our  eldest  son  was  named  George,  after  his  uncle, 
who  left  us  ten  thousand  pounds.  Our  second 
child,  a girl,  I intended  to  call  after  her  aunt  Gris- 
sel ; but  my  wife,  who  during  her  pregnancy  had 
been  reading  romances,  insisted  upon  her  being 
called  Olivia.  In  less  than  another  year  we  had 
another  daughter,  and  now  I was  determined  that 
Grissel  should  be  her  name  ; but  a rich  relation 
taking  a fancy  to  stand  godmother,  the  girl  was, 
by  her  directions,  called  Sophia  : so  that  we  had 
two  romantic  names  in  the  family ; but  I solemnly 
protest  I had  no  hand  in  it.  Moses  was  our  next, 
and  after  an  interval  of  twelve  years,  we  had  two 
sons  more. 

It  would  be  fruitless  to  deny  exultation  when  I 
saw  my  little  ones  about  me ; but  the  vanity  and 
the  satisfaction  of  my  wife  were  even  greater  than 
mine.  When  our  visitors  would  say,  “ Well,  upon 
my  word,  Mrs.  Primrose,  you  have  the  finest  child- 
ren in  the  whole  country”:  — “ Ay,  neighbor,” 
she  would  answer,  “ they  are  as  Heaven  made 
them,  handsome  enough,  if  they  be  good  enough  ; 
for  handsome  is  that  handsome  does.”  And  then 
she  would  bid  the  girls  hold  up  their  heads  who, 
to  conceal  nothing,  were  certainly  very  handsome. 
Mere  outside  is  so  very  trifling  a circumstance 
with  me,  that  I should  scarce  have  remembered  to 
mention  it,  had  it  not  been  a general  topic  of  con- 
versation in  the  country.  Olivia,  now  about  eigh- 
teen, had  that  luxuriancy  of  beauty,  with  which 
painters  generally  draw  Hebe ; open,  sprightly, 
and  commanding.  Sophia's  features  were  not  so 
striking  at  first,  but  often  did  more  certain  execu- 
tion ; for  they  were  soft,  modest,  and  alluring. 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 5 

The  one  vanquished  by  a single  blow,  the  other 
by  efforts  successfully  repeated. 

The  temper  of  a woman  is  generally  formed 
from  the  turn  of  her  features,  at  least  it  was  so 
with  my  daughters.  Olivia  wished  for  many 
lovers,  Sophia  to  secure  one.  Olivia  was  often  af- 
fected from  too  great  a desire  to  please.  Sophia 
even  repressed  excellence  from  her  fears  to  offend. 
The  one  entertained  me  with  her  vivacity  when  I 
was  gay,  the  other  with  her  sense  when  I was  seri- 
ous. But  these  qualities  were  never  carried  to  ex- 
cess in  either,  and  I have  often  seen  them  exchange 
characters  for  a whole  day  together.  A suit  of 
mourning  has  transformed  my  coquette  into  a 
prude,  and  a new  set  of  ribbons  has  given  her 
younger  sister  more  than  natural  vivacity.  My 
eldest  son  George  was  bred  at  Oxford,  as  I intended 
him  for  one  of  the  learned  professions.  My  second 
boy,  Moses,  whom  I designed  for  business,  received 
a sort  of  miscellaneous  education  at  home.  But  -it 
is  needless  to  attempt  describing  the  particular 
characters  of  young  people  that  had  seen  but  very 
little  of  the  world.  In  short,  a family  likeness 
prevailed  through  all,  and,  properly  speaking,  they 
had  but  one  character,  that  of  being  all  equally 
generous,  credulous,  simple,  and  inoffensive. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Family  Misfortunes. — The  Loss  of  Fortune 

ONLY  SERVES  TO  INCREASE  THE  PRIDE  OF  THE 

Worthy. 

HE  temporal  concerns  of  our  family 
were  chiefly  committed  to  my  wife’s 
management ; as  to  the  spiritual,  I 
took  them  entirely  under  my  own  di- 
The  profits  of  my  living,  which  amount- 
ed to  but  thirty-five  pounds  a year,  I made  over 
to  the  orphans  and  widows  of  the  clergy  of  our 
diocese  ; for,  having  a fortune  of  my  own,  I was 
careless  of  temporalities,  and  felt  a secret  pleasure 
in  doing  my  duty  without  reward.  I also  set  a 
resolution  of  keeping  no  curate,  and  of  being  ac- 
quainted with  every  man  in  the  parish,  exhorting 
the  married  men  to  temperance,  and  the  bachelors 
to  matrimony ; so  that  in  a few  years  it  was  a 
common  saying,  that  there  were  three  strange 
wants  at  Wakefield,  a parson  wanting  pride, 
young  men  wanting  wives,  and  alehouses  want- 
ing customers. 

Matrimony  was  always  one  of  my  favorite  top- 
ics, and  I wrote  several  sermons  to  prove  its  hap- 
piness ; but  there  was  a peculiar  tenet  which  I 
made  a point  of  supporting  : for  I maintained,  with 


rcction. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


7 


Whiston,  that  it  was  unlawful  for  a priest  of  the 
Church  of  England,  after  the  death  of  his  first 
wife,  to  take  a second,  or,  to  express  it  in  one 
word,  I valued  myself  upon  being  a strict  monog- 
amist. 

I was  early  initiated  into  this  important  dispute, 
on  which  so  many  laborious  volumes  have  been 
written.  I published  some  tracts  upon  the  sub- 
ject myself,  which,  as  they  never  sold,  I have  the 
consolation  of  thinking  were  read  only  by  the 
happy  few.  Some  of  my  friends  called  this  my 
weak  side ; but  alas ! they  had  not  like  me  made 
it  the  subject  of  long  contemplation.  The  more  I 
reflected  upon  it,  the  more  important  it  appeared. 
I even  went  a step  beyond  Whiston  in  displaying 
my  principles  : as  he  had  engraven  upon  his  wife’s 
tomb  that  she  was  the  only  wife  of  William  Whis- 
ton, so  I wrote  a similar  epitaph  for  my  wife, 
though  still  living,  in  which  I extolled  her  pru- 
dence, economy,  and  obedience  till  death ; and 
having  got  it  copied  fair,  with  an  elegant  frame,  it. 
was  placed  over  the  chimney-piece,  where  it  an- 
swered several  very  useful  purposes.  It  admon- 
ished my  wife  of  her  duty  to  me,  and  my  fidelity  to 
her ; it  inspired  her  with  a passion  for  fame,  and 
constantly  put  her  in  mind  of  her  end. 

It  was  thus,  perhaps,  from  hearing  marriage  so 
often  recommended,  that  my  eldest  son,  just  upon 
leaving  college,  fixed  his  affections  upon  the  daugh- 
ter of  a neighboring  clergyman,  who  was  a digni- 
tary in  the  Church,  and  in  circumstances  to  give 
her  a large  fortune  : but  fortune  was  her  smallest 
accomplishment.  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot  was 
allowed  by  all,  (except  my  two  daughters,)  to  be 


8 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


completely  pretty.  Her  youth,  health,  and  inno- 
cence were  still  heightened  by  a complexion  so 
transparent,  and  such  a happy  sensibility  of  look, 
as  even  age  could  not  gaze  on  with  indifference. 
As  Mr.  Wilmot  knew  that  I could  make  a very 
handsome  settlement  on  my  son,  he  was  not  averse 
to  the  match ; so  both  families  lived  together  in  all 
that  harmony  which  generally  precedes  an  ex- 
pected alliance.  Being  convinced  by  experience 
that  the  days  of  courtship  are  the  most  happy  of 
our  lives,  I was  willing  enough  to  lengthen  the  pe- 
riod ; and  the  various  amusements  which  the  young 
couple  every  day  shared  in  each  other’s  company, 
seemed  to  increase  their  passion.  We  were  gener- 
ally awaked  in  the  morning  by  music,  and  on  fine 
days  rode  a hunting.  The  hours  between  break- 
fast and  dinner  the  ladies  devoted  to  dress  and 
study  : they  usually  read  a page,  and  then  gazed 
at  themselves  in  the  glass,  which  even  philosophers 
might  own  often  presented  the  page  of  greatest 
beauty.  At  dinner  my  wife  took  the  lead  ; for  as 
she  always  insisted  upon  carving  everything  her- 
self, it  being  her  mother’s  way,  she  gave  us  upon 
these  occasions  the  history  of  every  dish.  When 
we  had  dined,  to  prevent  the  ladies  leaving  us,  I 
generally  ordered  the  table  to  be  removed ; and 
sometimes,  with  the  music-master’s  assistance,  the 
girls  would  give  us  a very  agreeable  concert. 
Walking  out,  drinking  tea,  country  dances,  and 
forfeits  shortened  the  rest  of  the  day,  without  the 
assistance  of  cards,  as  I hated  all  manner  of  gam- 
ing, except  backgammon,  at  which  my  old  friend 
and  I sometimes  took  a twopenny  hit.  Nor  can 
I here  pass  over  an  ominous  circumstance  that 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


9 

happened  the  last  time  we  played  together  ; I only 
wanted  to  fling  a quatre,  and  yet  I threw  deuce 
ace  five  times  running. 

Some  months  were  elapsed  in  this  manner,  till 
at  last  it  was  thought  convenient  to  fix  a day  for 
the  nuptials  of  the  young  couple,  who  seemed  ear- 
nestly to  desire  it.  During  the  preparations  for 
the  wedding,  I need  not  describe  the  busy  impor- 
tance of  my  wife,  nor  the  sly  looks  of  my  daugh- 
ters : in  fact,  my  attention  was  fixed  on  another 
object,  the  completing  a tract  which  I intended 
shortly  to  publish  in  defence  of  my  favorite  princi- 
ple. As  I looked  upon  this  as  a masterpiece,  both 
for  argument  and  style,  I could  not  in  the  pride  of 
my  heart  avoid  showing  it  to  my  old  friend,  Mr. 
Wilmot,  as  I made  no  doubt  of  receiving  his  appro- 
bation ; but  not  till  too  late  I discovered  that  ho 
w'as  most  violently  attached  to  the  contrary  opin- 
ion, and  with  good  reason  ; for  he  was  at  that 
time  actually  courting  a fourth  wife.  This,  as 
may  be  expected,  produced  a dispute  attended  with 
some  acrimony,  which  threatened  to  interrupt  our 
intended  alliance  : but  on  the  day  before  that  ap- 
pointed for  the  ceremony,  we  agreed  to  discuss  the 
subject  at  large. 

It  was  managed  with  proper  spirit  on  both 
sides : he  asserted  that  I was  heterodox,  I re- 
torted the  charge;  he  replied,  and  I rejoined. 
In  the  mean  time,  while  the  controversy  was 
hottest,  I was  called  out  by  one  of  my  relations, 
who,  with  a face  of  concern,  advised  me  to  give 
up  the  dispute,  at  least  till  my  son’s  wedding  was 
over.  “ How,”  cried  I,  “ relinquish  the  cause  of 
truth,  and  let  him  be  a husband,  already  driven 


IO 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


to  the  very  verge  of  absurdity.  You  might  as 
well  advise  me  to  give  up  my  fortune,  as  my  ar- 
gument.” — “ Your  fortune,”  returned  my  friend, 
“ I am  now  sorry  to  inform  you  is  almost  noth- 
ing. The  merchant  in  town,  in  whose  hands 
your  money  was  lodged,  has  gone  off,  to  avoid  a 
statute  of  bankruptcy,  and  is  thought  not  to  have 
left  a shilling  in  the  pound.  I was  unwilling  to 
shock  you  or  the  family  with  the  aecount  till  af- 
ter the  wedding : but  now  it  may  serve  to  moder- 
ate your  warmth  in  the  argument ; for,  I suppose, 
your  own  prudence  will  enforce  the  necessity  of 
dissembling,  at  least  till  your  son  has  the  young 
lady’s  fortune  secure.”  — “Well,”  returned  I,  “if 
what  you  tell  me  be  true,  and  if  I am  to  be  a beg- 
gar, it  shall  never  make  me  a rascal,  or  induce 
me  to  disavow  my  principles.  I’ll  go  this  mo- 
ment and  inform  the  company  of  my  circum- 
stances ; and  as  for  the  argument,  I even  here 
retract  my  former  concessions  in  the  old  gentle- 
man’s favor,  nor  will  I allow  him  now  to  be  a 
husband  in  any  sense  of  the  expression.” 

It  would  be  endless  to  describe  the  different 
sensations  of  both  families,  when  I divulged  the 
news  of  our  misfortune;  but  what  others  felt  was 
slight  to  what  the  lovers  appeared  to  endure. 
Mr.  Wilmot,  who  seemed  before  sufficiently  in- 
clined to  break  off  the  match,  was  by  this  blow 
soon  determined : one  virtue  he  had  in  perfection, 
which  was  prudence,  too  often  the  only  one  that 
is  left  us  at  seventy-two. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A Migration.  — The  Fortunate  Circumstances 
of  our  Lives  are  generally  found  at  last 

TO  BE  OF  OUR  OWN  PROCURING. 

HE  only  hope  of  our  family  now  was, 
that  the  report  of  our  misfortune  might 
be  malicious  or  premature : but  a let- 
ter from  my  agent  in  town  soon  came 
with  a confirmation  of  every  particular.  The  loss 
of  fortune  to  myself  alone  would  have  been  tri- 
fling ; the  only  uneasiness  I felt  was  for  my  fam- 
ily, who  were  to  be  humble  without  an  education 
to  render  them  callous  to  contempt. 

Near  a fortnight  had  passed  before  I attempted 
to  restrain  their  affliction  ; for  premature  consola- 
tion is  but  the  remembrancer  of  sorrow.  During 
this  interval,  my  thoughts  were  employed  on  some 
future  means  of  supporting  them  ; and  at  last  a 
small  cure  of  fifteen  pounds  a-year  was  offered  me 
in  a distant  neighborhood,  where  I could  still  en- 
joy my  principles  without  molestation.  With  this 
proposal  I joyfully  closed,  having  determined  to 
increase  my  salary  by  managing  a little  farm. 

Having  taken  this  resolution,  my  next  care  was 
to  get  together  the  wrecks  of  my  fortune  : and,  all 
debts  collected  and  paid,  out  of  fourteen  thousand 


12 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


pounds  we  had  but  four  hundred  remaining.  My 
chief  attention,  therefore,  was  now  to  bring  down 
the  pride  of  my  family  to  their  circumstances  ; for 
I well  knew  that  aspiring  beggary  is  wretchedness 
itself.  “You  cannot  be  ignorant,  my  children/’ 
cried  I,  “ that  no  prudence  of  ours  could  have  pre- 
vented our  late  misfortune ; but  prudence  may  do 
much  in  disappointing  its  effects.  We  are  now 
poor,  my  fondlings,  and  wisdom  bids  us  conform 
to  our  humble  situation.  Let  us  then,  without  re- 
pining, give  up  those  splendors  with  which  num- 
bers are  wretched,  and  seek  in  humbler  circum- 
stances that  peace  with  which  all  may  be  happy. 
The  poor  live  pleasantly  without  our  help,  why 
then  should  not  we  learn  to  live  without  theirs  ? 
No,  my  children,  let  us  from  this  moment  give  up 
all  pretensions  to  gentility ; we  have  still  enough 
left  for  happiness  if  we  are  wise,  and  let  us  draw 
upon  content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune.” 

As  my  eldest  son  was  bred  a scholar,  I deter- 
mined  to  send  him  to  town,  where  his  abilities 
might  contribute  to  our  support  and  his  own. 
The  separation  of  friends  and  families  is,  perhaps, 
one  of  the  most  distressful  circumstances  attendant 
on  penury.  The  day  soon  arrived  on  which  we 
were  to  disperse  for  the  first  time.  My  son,  after 
taking  leave  of  his  mother  and  the  rest,  who  min- 
gled their  tears  with  their  kisses,  came  to  ask  a 
blessing  from  me.  This  I gave  him  from  my 
heart,  and  which,  added  to  five  guineas,  was  all 
the  patrimony  I had  now  to  bestow.  “You  are 
going,  my  boy,”  cried  I,  “ to  London  on  foot,  in 
the  manner  Hooker,  your  great  ancestor,  travelled 
there  before  you.  Take  from  me  the  same  horse 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


l3 

that  was  given  him  by  the  good  bishop  Jewel,  this 
staff,  and  take  this  book  too,  it  will  be  your  com- 
fort on  the  way  : these  two  lines  in  it  are  worth  a 
million,  — (l have  been  young , and  now  am  old ; yet  never 
saw  I the  righteous  man  forsaken,  or  his  seed  begging 
their  bread .J  - Let  this  be  your  consolation  as  you 
travel  on.  Go,  my  boy,  whatever  be  thy  fortune, 
let  me  see  thee  once  a year  ; still  keep  a good  heart, 
and  farewell.”  As  he  was  possessed  of  integrity 
and  honor,  I was  under  no  apprehensions  from 
throwing  him  naked  into  the  amphitheatre  of  life ; 
for  I knew  he  would  act  a good  part  whether  van- 
quished or  victorious. 

His  departure  only  prepared  the  way  for  our 
own,  which  arrived  a few  days  afterwards.  The 
leaving  a neighborhood  in  which  we  had  enjoyed 
so  many  hours  of  tranquillity  was  not  without  a 
tear,  which  scarce  fortitude  itself  could  suppress. 
Besides,  a journey  of  seventy  miles  to  a family  that 
had  hitherto  never  been  above  ten  from  home,  filled 
us  with  apprehension  ; and  the  cries  of  the  poor, 
who  followed  us  for  some  miles,  contributed  to  in- 
crease it.  The  first  day’s  journey  brought  us  in 
safety  within  thirty  miles  of  our  future  retreat,  and 
we  put  up  for  the  night  at  an  obscure  inn  in  a vil- 
lage by  the  way.  When  we  were  shown  a room, 
I desired  the  landlord,  in  my  usual  way,  to  let  us 
have  his  company,  with  which  he  complied,  as 
what  he  drank  would  increase  the  bill  next  morn- 
ing. He  knew,  however,  the  whole  neighborhood 
to  which  I was  removing,  particularly  ’Squire 
Thornhill,  who  was  to  be  my  landlord,  and  who 
lived  within  a few  miles  of  the  place.  This  gen- 
tleman he  described  as  one  who  desired  to  know 


14 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


little  more  of  the  world  than  its  pleasures,  being 
particularly  remarkable  for  his  attachment  to  the 
fair  sex.  He  observed  that  no  virtue  was  able  to 
resist  his  arts  and  assiduity,  and  that  scarce  a 
farmer’s  daughter  within  ten  miles  round,  but 
what  had  found  him  successful  and  faithless. 
Though  this  account  gave  me  some  pain,  it  had  a 
very  different  effect  upon  my  daughters,  whose 
features  seemed  to  brighten  with  the  expectation  of 
an  approaching  triumph  ; nor  was  my  wife  less 
pleased  and  confident  of  their  allurements  and  vir- 
tue. While  our  thoughts  were  thus  employed,  the 
hostess  entered  the  room  to  inform  her  husband 
that  the  strange  gentleman,  who  had  been  two 
days  in  the  house,  wanted  money,  and  could  not 
satisfy  them  for  his  reckoning.  “ Want  money  ! ” 
replied  the  host,  “ that  must  be  impossible;  for  it 
was  no  later  than  yesterday  he  paid  three  guineas 
to  our  beadle  to  spare  an  old  broken  soldier  that 
was  to  be  whipped  through  the  town  for  dog-steal- 
ing.” The  hostess,  however,  still  persisting  in 
her  first  assertion,  he  was  preparing  to  leave  the 
room,  swearing  that  he  would  be  satisfied  one  way 
or  another,  when  I begged  the  landlord  would  in- 
troduce me  to  a stranger  of  so  much  charity  as  he 
described.  With  this  he  complied,  showing  in  a 
gentleman  who  seemed  to  be  about  thirty,  dressed 
in  clothes  that  once  were  laced.  His  person  was 
well  formed,  and  his  face  marked  with  the  lines  of 
thinking.  He  had  something  short  and  dry  in  his 
address,  and  seemed  not  to  understand  ceremony, 
or  to  despise  it.  Upon  the  landlord’s  leaving  th<i 
room,  I could  not  avoid  expressing  my  concern  to 
the  stranger  at  seeing  a gentleman  in  such  circum- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


*5 

stances,  and  offered  him  my  purse  to  satisfy  the 
present  demand.  “ I take  it  with  all  my  heart, 
Sir,”  replied  he,  “ and  am  glad  that  a late  over- 
sight in  giving  what  money  I had  about  me,  has 
shown  me  that  there  are  still  some  men  like  you. 
I must,  however,  previously  entreat  being  informed 
of  the  name  and  residence  of  my  benefactor,  in  or- 
der to  repay  him  as  soon  as  possible.  In  this  I 
satisfied  him  fully,  not  only  mentioning  my  name 
and  late  misfortunes,  but  the  place  to  which  I was 
going  to  remove.  “ This,”  cried  he,  “ happens 
still  more  luckily  than  I hoped  for,  as  I am  going 
the  same  way  myself,  having  been  detained  here 
two  days  by  the  floods,  which  I hope  by  to-morrow 
will  be  found  passable.”  I testified  the  pleasure  I 
should  have  in  his  company,  and  my  wife  and 
daughters  joining  in  entreaty,  he  was  prevailed 
upon  to  stay  supper.  The  stranger’s  conversa- 
tion, which  was  at  once  pleasing  and  instructive, 
induced  me  to  wish  for  a continuance  of  it ; but  it 
was  now  high  time  to  retire  and  take  refreshment 
against  the  fatigues  of  the  following  day. 

The  next  morning  we  all  set  forward  together : 
my  family  on  horseback,  while  Mr.  Burehell,  our 
new  companion,  walked  along  the  footpath  by  the 
roadside,  observing  with  a smile,  that  as  we  were 
ill-mounted,  he  would  be  too  generous  to  attempt 
leaving  us  behind.  As  the  floods  were  not  yet 
subsided,  we  were  obliged  to  hire  a guide,  who 
trotted  on  before,  Mr.  Burehell  and  I bringing  up 
the  rear.  We  lightened  the  fatigues  of  the  road 
with  philosophical  disputes,  which  he  seemed  to 
understand  perfectly.  But  what  surprised  me 
most  wasr  that  though  he  was  a money-borrower, 


1 6 THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

he  defended  his  opinions  with  as  much  obstinacy 
as  if  he  had  been  my  patron.  He  now  and  then 
also  informed  me  to  whom  the  different  seats  be- 
longed that  lay  in  our  view  as  we  travelled  the 
road.  “ That,”  cried  he,  pointing  to  a very  mag- 
nificent house  which  stood  at  some  distance,  “ be- 
longs to  Mr.  Thornhill,  a young  gentleman  who 
enjoys  a large  fortune,  though  entirely  dependent 
on  the  will  of  his  uncle,  Sir  William  Thornhill,  a 
gentleman  who,  content  with  a little  himself,  per- 
mits his  nephew  to  enjoy  the  rest,  and  chiefly  re- 
sides in  town,”  “ What ! ” cried  I “ is  my  young 
landlord  then  the  nephew  of  a man  whose  virtues, 
generosity,  and  singularities,  are  so  universally 
known  ? I have  heard  Sir  William  Thornhill 
represented  as  one  of  the  most  generous,  yet  whim- 
sical men  in  the  kingdom  ; a man  of  consummate 
benevolence.” — “Something,  perhaps,  too  much 
so,”  replied  Mr.  Burchell,  “ at  least  he  carried  be- 
nevolence to  an  excess  when  young ; for  his  pas- 
sions were  then  strong,  and  as  they  were  all  upon 
the  side  of  virtue,  they  led  it  up  to  a romantic  ex- 
treme. He  early  began  to  aim  at  the  qualifica- 
tions of  the  soldier  and  scholar ; was  soon  distin- 
guished in  the  army,  and  had  some  reputation 
among  men  of  learning.  Adulation  ever  follows 
the  ambitious ; for  such  alone  receive  most  plea- 
sure from  flattery.  He  was  surrounded  with  crowds, 
who  showed  him  only  one  side  of  their  character ; 
so  that  he  began  to  lose  a regard  for  private  inter- 
est in  universal  sympathy.  He  loved  all  mankind  ; 
for  fortune  prevented  him  from  knowing  that  there 
were  rascals.  Physicians  tell  us  of  a disorder,  in 
which  the  whole  body  is  so  exquisitely  sensible, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  17 

that  the  slightest  touch  gives  pain  : what  some 
have  thus  suffered  in  their  persons,  this  gentleman 
felt  in  his  mind.  The  slightest  distress,  whether 
real  or  fictitious,  touched  him  to  the  quick,  and 
his  soul  labored  under  a sickly  sensibility  of  the 
miseries  of  others.  Thus  disposed  to  relieve,  it 
will  be  easily  conjectured,  he  found  numbers  dis- 
posed to  solicit : his  profusions  began  to  impair 
his  fortune,  but  not  his  good  nature ; that,  indeed, 
was  seen  to  increase  as  the  other  seemed  to  decay ; 
he  grew  improvident  as  he  grew  poor  ; and  though 
he  talked  like  a man  of  sense,  his  actions  were 
those  of  a fool.  Still,  however,  being  surrounded 
with  importunity,  and  no  longer  able  to  satisfy 
every  request  that  was  made  him,  instead  of  money 
he  gave  promises.  They  were  all  he  had  to  bestow, 
and  he  had  not  resolution  enough  to  give  any  man 
pain  by  a denial.  By  this  he  drew  round  him 
crowds  of  dependants,  whom  he  was  sure  to  disap- 
point, yet  wished  to  relieve.  These  hung  upon 
him  for  a time,  and  left  him  with  merited  re- 
proaches and  contempt.  But  in  proportion  as  he 
became  contemptible  to  others,  he  became  despica- 
ble to  himself.  His  mind  had  leaned  upon  their 
adulation,  and  that  support  taken  away,  he  could 
find  no  pleasure  in  the  applause  of  his  heart,  which 
he  had  never  learnt  to  reverence.  The  world  now 
began  to  wear  a different  aspect;  the  flattery  of 
his  friends  began  to  dwindle  into  simple  approba- 
tion. Approbation  soon  took  the  more  friendly 
form  of  advice,  and  advice  when  rejected  produced 
their  reproaches.  He  now  therefore  found,  that 
such  friends  as  benefits  had  gathered  round  him, 
were  little  estimable : he  now  found  that  a man’s 


2 


1 8 THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

own  heart  must  be  ever  given  to  gain  that  of  an- 
other. I now  found,  that  — that  — I forget  what 
I was  going  to  observe : in  short,  Sir,  he  resolved 
to  respect  himself,  and  laid  down  a plan  of  restor- 
ing his  falling  fortune.  For  this  purpose,  in  his 
own  whimsical  manner,  he  travelled  through  Eu- 
rope on  foot,  and  now,  though  he  has  scarce  at- 
tained the  age  of  thirty,  his  circumstances  are 
more  affluent  than  ever.  At  present,  his  bounties 
are  more  rational  and  moderate  than  before  ; but 
still  he  preserves  the  character  of  an  humorist,  and 
finds  most  pleasure  in  eccentric  virtues.” 

My  attention  was  so  much  taken  up  by  Mr. 
Burchell’s  account,  that  I scarce  looked  forward  as 
he  went  along,  till  we  were  alarmed  by  the  cries  of 
my  family,  when  turning,  I perceived  my  young- 
est daughter  in  the  midst  of  a rapid  stream,  thrown 
from  her  horse,  and  struggling  with  the  torrent. 
She  had  sunk  twice,  nor  was  it  in  my  power  to 
disengage  myself  in  time  to  bring  her  relief.  My 
sensations  were  even  too  violent  to  permit  my  at- 
tempting her  rescue  : she  must  have  certainly  per- 
ished had  not  my  companion,  perceiving  her 
danger,  instantly  plunged  in  to  her  relief,  and, 
with  some  difficulty,  brought  her  in  safety  to  the 
opposite  shore.  By  taking  the  current  a little  far- 
ther up,  the  rest  of  the  family  got  safely  over, 
where  we  had  an  opportunity  of  joining  our  ac- 
knowledgments to  hers.  Her  gratitude  may  be 
more  readily  imagined  than  described  : she  thanked 
her  deliverer  more  with  looks  than  words,  and  con- 
tinued to  lean  upon  his  arm,  as  if  still  willing  to 
receive  assistance.  My  wife  also  hoped  one  day 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  returning  his  kindness  at 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


her  own  house.  Thus,  after  we  were  refreshed  at 
the  next  inn,  and  had  dined  together,  as  Mr.  Bur- 
chell  was  going  to  a different  part  of  the  country 
he  took  leave ; and  we  pursued  our  journey  : my 
wife  observing  as  he  went,  that  she  liked  him  ex- 
tremely, and  protesting,  that  if  he  had  birth  and 
fortune  to  entitle  him  to  match  into  such  a family 
as  ours,  she  knew  no  man  she  would  sooner  fix 
upon.  I could  not  but  smile  to  hear  her  talk  in 
this  lofty  strain  ;^1>ut  I was  never  much  displeased 
with  those  harmless  delusions  that  tend  to  make 
us  n 


A Proof  that  even  the  humblest  Fortune 
may  grant  Happiness,  which  depends  not 
- on  Circumstances  but  Constitution. 


HE  place  of  our  retreat  was  in  a little 
neighborhood,  consisting  of  farmers, 
who  tilled  their  own  grounds,  and  were 
equal  strangers  to  opulence  and  pov- 
erty. As  they  had  almost  all  the  conveniences  of 
life  within  themselves,  they  seldom  visited  towns 
or  cities,  in  search  of  superfluity.  Remote  from 
the  polite,  they  still  retained  the  primeval  simpli- 
city of  manners  ; and  frugal  by  habit,  they  scarce 
knew  that  temperance  was  a virtue.  They  wrought 
with  cheerfulness  on  days  of  labor  ; but  observed 
festivals  as  intervals  of  idleness  and  pleasure. 
They  kept  up  the  Christmas  carol,  sent  true-love 
knots  on  Valentine  morning,  ate  pancakes  on 
Shrovetide,  showed  their  wit  on  the  first  of  April, 
and  religiously  cracked  nuts  on  Michaelmas  eve. 
Being  apprised  of  our  approach,  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood came  out  to  meet  their  minister,  dressed 
in  their  finest  clothes,  and  preceded  by  a pipe  and 
tabor  : a feast  also  was  provided  for  our  reception, 
at  which  we  sat  cheerfully  down  ; and  what  the 
conversation  wanted  in  wit,  was  made  up  in 
laughter. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


21 


Our  little  habitation  was  situated  at  the  foot  of 
a sloping  hill,  sheltered  with  a beautiful  under- 
wood behind,  and  a prattling  river  before  : on  one 
side  a meadow,  on  the  other  a green.  My  farm 
consisted  of  about  twenty  acres  of  excellent  land, 
having  given  an  hundred  pound  for  my  predeces- 
sor’s good-will.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  neat- 
ness of  my  little  enclosures  ; the  elms  and  hedge- 
rows ' appearing  with  inexpressible  beauty.  My 
house  consisted  of  but  one  story,  and  was  cov- 
ered with  thatch,  which  gave  it  an  air  of  great 
snugness ; the  walls  of  the  inside  were  nicely 
whitewashed,  and  my  daughters  undertook  to 
adorn  them  with  pictures  of  their  own  designing. 
Though  the  same  room  served  us  for  parlor  and 
kitchen,  that  only  made  it  the  warmer.  Besides, 
as  it  was  kept  with  the  utmost  neatness,  the 
dishes,  plates,  and  coppers  being  well  scoured,  and 
all  disposed  in  bright  rows  on  the  shelves,  the  eye 
was  agreeably  relieved,  and  did  not  want  richer 
furniture.  There  were  three  other  apartments, 
one  for  my  wife  and  me,  another  for  our  two 
daughters,  within  our  own,  and  the  third,  with 
two  beds,  for  the  rest  of  the  children. 

The  little  republic  to  which  I gave  laws,  was 
regulated  in  the  following  manner : by  sunrise  we 
all  assembled  in  our  common  apartment ; the  fire 
being  previously  kindled  by  the  servant.  After 
we  had  saluted  each  other  with  proper  ceremony, 
for  I always  thought  fit  to  keep  up  some  mechani- 
cal forms  of  good  breeding,  without  which  freedom 
ever  destroys  friendship,  we  all  bent  in  gratitude 
to  that  Being  who  gave  us  another  day.  This 
duty  being  performed,  my  son  and  I went  to  pur- 


22 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


sue  our  usual  industry  abroad,  while  my  wife  and 
daughters  employed  themselves  in  providing  break- 
fast, which  was  always  ready  at  a certain  time. 
I allowed  half  an  hour  for  this  meal,  and  an  hour 
for  dinner ; which  time  was  taken  up  in  innocent 
mirth  between  my  wife  and  daughters,  and  in  phil- 
osophical arguments  between  my  son  and  me. 

As  we  rose  with  the  sun,  so  we  never  pursued 
our  labors  after  it  was  gone  down,  but  returned 
home  to  the  expecting  family ; where  smiling 
looks,  a neat  hearth,  and  pleasant  fire  were  pre- 
pared for  our  reception.  Nor  were  we  without 
guests  ; sometimes  Farmer  Flamborough,  our  talk- 
ative neighbor,  and  often  the  blind  piper,  would 
pay  us  a visit,  and  taste  our  gooseberry  wine ; for 
the  making  of  which  we  had  lost  neither  the  re- 
ceipt nor  the  reputation.  These  harmless  people 
had  several  ways  of  being  good  company ; while 
one  played,  the  other  would  sing  some  soothing 
ballad,  Johnny  Armstrong’s  Last  Good  Night,  or 
the  Cruelty  of  Barbara  Allen.  The  night  was 
concluded  in  the  manner  we  began  the  morning, 
my  youngest  boys  being  appointed  to  read  the  les- 
sons of  the  day,  and  he  that  read  loudest,  distinct- 
est,  and  best,  was  to  have  an  halfpenny  on  Sunday, 
to  put  in  the  poor’s  box. 

When  Sunday  came,  it  was  indeed  a day  of  fin- 
ery, which  all  my  sumptuary  edicts  could  not  re- 
strain. How  well  soever  I fancied  my  lectures 
against  pride  had  conquered  the  vanity  of  my 
daughters,  yet  I still  found  them  secretly  attached 
to  all  their  former  finery : they  still  loved  laces, 
ribands,  bugles,  and  catgut ; my  wife  herself  re- 
tained a passion  for  her  crimson  paduasoy,  be- 
cause I formerly  happened  to  say  it  became  her. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


*3 

The  first  Sunday  in  particular  their  behavior 
served  to  mortify  me : I had  desired  my  girls  the 
preceding  night  to  be  dressed  early  the  next  day ; 
for  I always  loved  to  be  at  church  a good  while 
before  the  rest  of  the  congregation.  They  punc- 
tually obeyed  my  directions  ; but  when  we  were  to 
assemble  in  the  morning  at  breakfast,  down  came 
my  wife  and  daughters,  dressed  out  in  all  their 
former  splendor  : their  hair  plastered  up  with  po- 
matum, their  faces  patched  to  taste,  their  trains 
bundled  up  in  an  heap  behind,  and  rustling  at 
every  motion.  I could  not  help  smiling  at  their 
vanity,  particularly  that  of  my  wife,  from  whom  I 
expected  more  discretion.  In  this  exigence,  there- 
fore, my  only  resource  was  to  order  my  son,  with 
an  important  air  to  call  our  coach.  The  girls 
were  amazed  at  the  command  ; but  I repeated  it 
with  more  solemnity  than  before.  — “ Surely,  my 
dear,  you  jest/’  cried  my  wife,  “ we  can  walk  it 
perfectly  well : we  want  no  coach  to  carry  us  now.” 
— “ You  mistake,  child,”  returned  I,  “ we  do  want 
a coach  ; for  if  we  walk  to  church  in  this  trim,  the 
very  children  in  the  parish  will  hoot  after  us.”  — 
“ Indeed,”  replied  my  wife,  “ I always  imagined 
that  my  Charles  was  fond  of  seeing  his  children 
neat  and  handsome  about  him.”  — “ You  may  be 
as  neat  as  you  please,”  interrupted  I,  “ and  I 
shall  love  you  the  better  for  it ; but  all  this  is  not 
neatness,  but  frippery.  These  ruffiings,  and  pink- 
ings,  and  patchings  will  only  make  us  hated  by 
all  the  wives  of  our  neighbors.  No,  my  children,” 
continued  I,  more  gravely,  “ those  gowns  may  be 
altered  into  something  of  a plainer  cut ; for  finery 
is  very  unbecoming  in  us  who  want  the  means  of 


24 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


decency.  I do  not  know  whether  such  flouncing 
and  shredding  is  becoming  even  in  the  rich,  if  we 
consider,  upon  a moderate  calculation,  that  the 
nakedness  of  the  indigent  world  may  be  clothed 
from  the  trimmings  of  the  vain.” 

This  remonstrance  had  the  proper  effect;  they 
went  with  great  composure,  that  very  instant,  to 
change  their  dress  ; and  the  next  day  I had  the 
satisfaction  of  finding  my  daughters,  at  their  own 
request,  employed  in  cutting  up  their  trains  into 
Sunday  waistcoats  for  Dick  and  Bill,  the  two  little 
ones,  and  what  was  still  more  satisfactory,  the 
gowns  seemed  improved  by  this  curtailing. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A New  and  Great  Acquaintance  introduced. 
— What  we  place  most  Hopes  upon,  gen- 
erally PROVES  MOST  FATAL. 

T a small  distance  from  the  house,  my 
predecessor  had  made  a seat,  over- 
shaded by  an  hedge  of  hawthorn  and 
honeysuckle.  Here,  when  the  weather 
was  fine  and  our  labor  soon  finished,  we  usually 
sat  together,  to  enjoy  an  extensive  landscape,  in 
the  calm  of  the  evening.  Here  too  we  drank  tea, 
which  was  now  become  an  occasional  banquet ; 
and  as  we  had  it  but  seldom,  it  diffused  a new  joy, 
the  preparations  for  it  being  made  with  no  small 

share  of  bustle  and  ceremonv.  On  these  occa- 

%/ 

sions  our  two  little  ones  always  read  for  us,  and 
they  were  regularly  served  after  we  had  done. 
Sometimes,  to  give  a variety  to  our  amusements, 
the  girls  sung  to  the  guitar ; and  while  they  thus 
formed  a little  concert,  my  wife  and  I would 
stroll  down  the  sloping  field,  that  was  embellished 
with  bluebells  and  eentaurv,  talk  of  our  children 
with  rapture,  and  enjoy  the  breeze. that  wafted 
both  health  and  harmony. 

In  this  manner  we  began  to  find  that  every  situ- 
ation in  life  may  bring  its  own  peculiar  pleasures  : 


26 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


every  morning  waked  us  to  a repetition  of  toil ; 
but  the  evening  repaid  it  with  vacant  hilarity. 

It  was  about  the  beginning  of  autumn,  on  a 
holiday,  for  I kept  such  as  intervals  of  relaxation 
from  labor,  that  I had  drawn  out  my  family  to 
our  usual  place  of  amusement,  and  our  young 
musicians  began  their  usual  concert.  As  we  were 
thus  engaged,  we  saw  a stag  bound  nimbly  by, 
within  about  twenty  paces  of  where  we  were  sit- 
ting, and  by  its  panting  it  seemed  pressed  by  the 
hunters.  We  had  not  much  time  to  reflect  upon 
the  poor  animal’s  distress,  when  we  perceived  the 
dogs  and  horsemen  come  sweeping  along  at  some 
distance  behind,  and  making  the  very  path  it  had 
taken.  I was  instantly  for  returning  in  with  my 
family ; but  either  curiosity  or  surprise,  or  some 
more  hidden  motive,  held  my  wife  and  daughters 
to  their  seats.  The  huntsman,  who  rode  fore- 
most, passed  us  with  great  swiftness,  followed  by 
four  or  five  persons  more,  who  seemed  in  equal 
haste.  At  last,  a young  gentleman  of  more  gen- 
teel appearance  than  the  rest  came  forward,  and 
for  a while  regarding  us,  instead  of  pursuing  the 
chase,  stopped  short,  and  giving  his  horse  to  a 
servant  who  attended,  approached  us  with  a care- 
less superior  air.  He  seemed  to  want  no  intro- 
duction, but  was  going  to  salute  my  daughters  as 
one  certain  of  a kind  reception ; but  they  had 
early  learned  the  lesson  of  looking  presumption 
out  of  countenance.  Upon  which  he  let  us  know 
his  name  was  Thornhill,  and  that  he  was  owner 
of  the  estate  that  lay  for  some  extent  round  us. 
He  again,  therefore,  offered  to  salute  the  female 
part  of  the  family,  and  such  was  the  power  of 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


27 


fortune  and  fine  clothes,  that  he  found  no  second 
repulse.  As  his  address,  though  confident,  was 
easy,  we  soon  became  more  familiar;  and  per- 
ceiving musical  instruments  lying  near,  he  begged 
to  be  favored  with  a song.  As  I did  not  approve 
of  such  disproportioned  acquaintances,  I winked 
upon  my  daughters  in  order  to  prevent  their  com- 
pliance; but  my  hint  was  counteracted  by  one 
from  their  mother;  so  that  with  a cheerful  air, 
they  gave  us  a favorite  song  of  Dryden’s.  Mr. 
Thornhill  seemed  highly  delighted  with  their  per- 
formance and  choice,  and  then  took  up  the  guitar 
himself.  He  played  but  very  indifferently  ; how- 
ever, my  eldest  daughter  repaid  his  former  ap- 
plause with  interest,  and  assured  him  that  his 
tones  were  louder  than  even  those  of  her  master. 
At  this  compliment  he  bowed,  which  she  returned 
with  a courtesy.  He  praised  her  taste,  and  she  com- 
mended his  understanding  : an  age  could  not  have 
made  them  better  acquainted  : while  the  fond  moth- 
er, too,  equally  happy,  insisted  upon  her  landlord's 
stepping  in,  and  tasting  a glass  of  her  gooseberry. 
The  whole  family  seemed  earnest  to  please  him : 
my  girls  attempted  to  entertain  him  with  top- 
ics they  thought  most  modern,  while  Moses,  on 
the  contrary,  gave  him  a question  or  two  from  the 
ancients,  for  which  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  being 
laughed  at : my  little  ones  were  no  less  busy,  and 
fondly  stuck  close  to  the  stranger.  All  my  en- 
deavors could  scarce  keep  their  dirty  fingers  from 
handling  and  tarnishing  the  lace  on  his  clothes, 
and  lifting  up  the  flaps  of  his  pocket-holes,  to  see 
what  was  there.  At  the  approach  of  evening  he 
took  leave ; but  not  till  he  had  requested  permis- 


28 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


sion  to  renew  his  visit,  which,  as  he  was  our  land- 
lord, we  most  readily  agreed  to. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  my  wife  called  a coun- 
cil on  the  conduct  of  the  day.  She  was  of  opin- 
ion, that  it  was  a most  fortunate  hit ; for  that  she 
had  known  even  stranger  things  than  that  brought 
to  bear.  She  hoped  again  to  see  the  day  in  which 
we  might  hold  up  our  heads  with  the  best  of  them  ; 
and  concluded,  she  protested  she  could  see  no  rea- 
son why  the  two  Miss  Wrinklers  should  marry 
great  fortunes,  and  her  children  get  none.  As  this 
last  argument  was  directed  to  me,  I protested  I 
could  see  no  reason  for  it  neither,  nor  why  Mr. 
Simkins  got  the  ten  thousand  pound  prize  in  the 
lottery,  and  we  sat  down  with  a blank.  “ I pro- 
test Charles,  cried  my  wife,  “ this  is  the  way  you 
always  damp  my  girls  and  me  when  we  are  in 
spirits.  Tell  me,  Sophy,  my  dear,  what  do  you 
think  of  our  new  visitor'?  Don’t  you  think  he 
seemed  to  be  good  natured  ? ” — “ Immensely  so, 
indeed,  mamma,”  replied  she.  “ I think  he  has  a 
great  deal  to  say  upon  everything,  and  is  never  at 
a loss ; and  the  more  trifling  the  subject,  the  more' 
he  has  to  say.”  — “ Yes,”  cried  Olivia,  u he  is  well 
enough  for  a man ; but  for  my  part,  I don’t  .much 
like  him,  he  is  so  extremely  impudent  and  famil- 
iar ; but  on  the  guitar,  he  is  shocking.”  These 
two  last  speeches  I interpreted  by  contraries.  I 
found  by  this,  that  Sophia  internally  despised,  as 
much  as  Olivia  secretly  admired  him.  — “ What- 
ever may  be  your  opinions  of  him,  my  children,” 
cried  I,  “ to  confess  the  truth,  he  has  not  prepos- 
sessed me  in  his  favor.  Disproportioned  friend- 
ships ever  terminate  in  disgust ; and  I thought, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


29 


notwithstanding  all  his  ease,  that  he  seemed  per- 
fectly sensible  of  the  distance  between  us.  Let  us 
keep  to  companions  of  our  own  rank.  There  is 
no  character  more  contemptible  than  a man  that  is 
a fortune-hunter;  and  I can  see  no  reason  why 
fortune-hunting  women  should  not  be  contemptible 
too.  Thus,  at  best,  we  shall  be  contemptible  if 
his  views  are  honorable ; but  if  they  be  otherwise ! 
I should  shudder  but  to  think  of  that ! It  is  true  I 
have  no  apprehensions  from  the  conduct  of  my 
children,  but  I think  there  are  some  from  his  char- 
acter.^ — I would  have  proceeded,  but  for  the  in- 
terruption of  a servant  from  the  Squire,  who,  with 
his  compliments,  sent  us  a side  of  venison,  and  a 
promise  to  dine  with  us  some  days  after.  This 
well-timed  present  pleaded  more  powerfully  in  his 
favor,  than  anything  I had  to  say  could  obviate. 
I therefore  continued  silent,  satisfied  with  just 
having  pointed  out  danger,  and  leaving  it  to  their 
own  discretion  to  avoid  it.  ( That  virtue  which  re- 
quires to  be  evgr  guarded,  is  scarce  worth  the  sen- 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Happiness  of  a Country  Fireside. 

S we  carried  on  the  former  dispute  with 
some  degree  of  warmth,  in  order  to  ac- 
commodate matters,  it  was  universally 
agreed,  that  we  should  have  a part  of 
the  venison  for  supper,  and  the  girls  undertook  the 
task  with  alacrity.  “ I am  sorry,”  cried  I,  “ that 
we  have  no  neighbor  or  stranger  to  take  a part  in 
this  good  cheer : feasts  of  this  kind  acquire  a 
double  relish  from  hospitality.” — ‘‘Bless  me,” 
cried  my  wife,  “ here  comes  our  good  friend,  Mr. 
Burchell,  that  saved  our  Sophia,  and  that  run  you 
down  fairly  in  the  argument.”  — “Confute  me  in 
argument,  child  ! ” cried  I.  “ You  mistake  there, 
my  dear,  I believe  there  are  but  few  that  can  do 
that : I never  dispute  your  abilities  at  making  a 
goose-pie,  and  I beg  you  HI  leave  argument  to  me.” 
— As  I spoke,  poor  Mr.  Burchell  entered  the  house, 
and  was  welcomed  by  the  family,  who  shook  him 
heartily  by  the  hand,  while  little  Dick  officiously 
reached  him  a chair. 

I was  pleased  with  the  poor  man’s  friendship 
for  two  reasons  : because  I knew  that  he  wanted 
mine,  and  I knew  him  to  be  friendly  as  far  as  he 
was  able.  He  was  known  in  our  neighborhood  by 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


3* 

the  character  of  the  poor  Gentleman  that  would  do 
no  good  when  he  was  young,  though  lie  was  not 
yet  thirty.  He  would  at  intervals  talk  with  great 
good  sense ; but  in  general  he  was  fondest  of  the 
company  of  children,  whom  he  used  to  call  harm- 
less little  men.  He  was  famous,  I found,  for  sing- 
ing them  ballads,  and  telling  them  stories ; and 
seldom  went  out  without  something  in  his  pockets 
for  them,  a piece  of  gingerbread,  or  an  half-penny 
whistle.  He  generally  came  for  a few  days  into 
our  neighborhood  once  a year,  and  lived  upon  the 
neighbors’  hospitality.  He  sat  down  to  supper 
among  us,  and  my  wife  was  not  sparing  of  her 
gooseberry  wine.  The  tale  went  round  ; he  sung 
us  old  songs,  and  gave  the  children  the  story  of  the 
Buck  of  Beverland,  with  the  history  of  Patient 
Grissel,  the  adventures  of  Catskin,  and  then  Fair 
Rosamond’s  Bower.  Our  cock,  which  always  crew 
at  eleven,  now  told  us  it  was  time  for  repose ; but 
an  unforeseen  difficulty  started  about  lodging  the 
stranger,  — all  our  beds  were  already  taken  up,  and 
it  was  too  late  to  send  him  to  the  next  alehouse.' 
In  this  dilemma,  little  Dick  offered  him  his  part  of 
the  bed,  if  his  brother  Moses  would  let  him  lie  with 
him  ; “ and  I,”  cried  Bill,  “ will  give  Mr.  Burchell 
my  part,  if  my  sisters  will  take  me  to  theirs.”  — 
“ Well  done,  my  good  children,”  cried  I,  “ hospi- 
tality is  one  of  the  first  Christian  duties.  The 
beast  retires  to  its  shelter,  and  the  bird  flies  to  its 
nest,  but  helpless  man  can  only  find  refuge  from 
his  fellow-creature.  The  greatest  stranger  in  this 
world,  was  he  that  came  to  save  it.  He  never  had 
an  house,  as  if  willing  to  see  what  hospitality  was 
left  remaining  amongst  us.  Deborah,  my  dear,” 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


3* 

cried  I to  my  wife,  “give  those  boys  a lump  of 
sugar  each,  and  let  Dick’s  be  the  largest,  because 
he  spoke  first.” 

In  the  morning  early  I called  out  my  whole  fam- 
ily to  help  at  saving  an  after-growth  of  hay,  and 
our  guest  offering  his  assistance,  he  was  accepted 
among  the  number.  Our  labors  went  on  lightly  : 
we  turned  the  swath  to  the  wind.  I went  fore- 
most, and  the  rest  followed  in  due  succession.  I 
could  not  avoid,  however,  observing  the  assiduity 
of  Mr.  Burchell  in  assisting  my  daughter  Sophia 
in  her  part  of  the  task.  When  he  had  finished  his 
own,  he  would  join  in  hers  and  enter  into  a close 
conversation  : but  I had  too  good  an  opinion  of 
Sophia’s  understanding,  and  was  too  well  con- 
vinced of  her  ambition,  to  be  under  any  uneasiness 
from  a man  of  broken  fortune.  When  we  were 
finished  for  the  day,  Mr.  Burchell  was  invited  as 
on  the  night  before,  but  he  refused,  as  he  was  to 
lie  that  night  at  a neighbor’s,  to  whose  child  he  was 
carrying  a whistle.  When  gone,  our  conversation 
at  supper  turned  upon  our  late  unfortunate  guest. 
“ What  a strong  instance,”  said  I,  “ is  that  poor 
man  of  the  miseries  attending  a youth  of  levity  and 
extravagance.  He  by  no  means  wants  sense, 
which  only  serves  to  aggravate  his  former  folly. 
Poor  forlorn  creature,  where  arc  now  the  revellers, 
the  flatterers,  that  he  could  once  inspire  and  com- 
mand ! Gone,  perhaps,  to  attend  the  bagnio 
pander,  grown  rich  by  his  extravagance.  They 
once  praised  him,  and  now  they  applaud  the  pan- 
der : their  former  raptures  at  his  wit  are  now  con- 
verted into  sarcasms  at  his  folly  : he  is  poor,  and 
perhaps  deserves  poverty,  for  lie  has  neither  the 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


33 


ambition  to  be  independent,  nor  the  skill  to  be 
useful.”  Prompted  perhaps  by  some  secret  rea- 
sons, I delivered  this  observation  with  too  much 
acrimony,  which  my  Sophia  gently  reproved. 
“ Whatsoever  his  former  conduct  may  have  been, 
papa,  his  circumstances  should  exempt  him  from 
censure  now.  His  present  indigence  is  a sufficient 
punishment  for  former  folly ; and  I have  heard  my 
papa  himself  say,  that  we  should  never  strike  our 
unnecessary  blow  at  a victim  over  whom  Provi- 
dence holds  the  scourge  of  its  resentment.”  — 
“ You  are  right,  Sophy,”  cried  my  son  Moses, 
“ and  one  of  the  ancients  finely  represents  so  mali- 
cious a conduct,  by  the  attempts  of  a rustic  to  flay 
Marsyas,  whose  skin,  the  fable  tells  us,  had  been 
wholly  stripped  off  by  another.  Besides,  I don’t 
know  if  this  poor  man’s  situation  be  so  bad  as  my 
father  would  represent  it.  ( We  are  not  to  judge  of 
the  feelings  of  others,  by  what  we  might  feel  in 
their  place.  However  dark  the  habitation  of  the 
mole  to  our  eyes,  yet  the  animal  itself  finds  the 
apartment  sufficiently  lightsome.!  And  to  confess 
a truth,  this  man’s  mind  seems  fitted  to  his  station, 
for  I never  heard  any  one  more  sprightly  than  he 
was  to-day,  when  he  conversed  with  you.”  — This 
was  said  without  the  least  design ; however,  it  ex- 
cited a blush,  which  she  strove  to  cover  by  an  af- 
fected laugh,  assuring  him,  that  she  scarce  took 
any  notice  of  what  he  said  to  her,  but  that  she  be- 
lieved he  might  once  have  been  a very  fine  gentle- 
man. The  readiness  with  which  she  undertook  to 
vindicate  herself,  and  her  blushing,  were  symptoms 
I did  not  internally  approve ; but  I repressed  my 
suspicions. 


3 


34 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


As  we  expected  our  landlord  the  next  day,  my 
wife  went  to  make  the  venison  pasty.  Moses  sat 
reading,  while  I taught  the  little  ones  : my  daugh- 
ters seemed  equally  busy  with  the  rest,  and  I ob- 
served them  for  a good  while  cooking  something 
over  the  fire.  I at  first  supposed  they  were  assist- 
ing their  mother,  but  little  Dick  informed  me  in  a 
whisper,  that  they  were  making  a wash  for  the  face. 
Washes  of  all  kinds  I had  a natural  antipathy  to, 
for  I knew  that  instead  of  mending  the  complexion 
they  spoiled  it.  I therefore  approached  my  chair 
by  sly  degrees  to  the  fire,  and  grasping  the  poker, 
as  if  it  wanted  mending,  seemingly  by  accident, 
overturned  the  whole  composition,  and  it  was  too 
late  to  begin  another. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A Town  Wit  described.  — The  Dullest  Fel- 
lows MAY  LEARN  TO  BE  COMICAL  FOR  A NlGHT 
OR  TWO. 

HEN  the  morning  arrived  on  which  we 
were  to  entertain  our  young  landlord,  it 
may  be  easily  supposed  what  provisions 
were  exhausted  to  make  an  appearance. 
It  may  also  be  conjectured  that  my  wife  and 
daughters  expanded  their  gayest  plumage  upon 
this  occasion.  Mr.  Thornhill  came  with  a couple 
of  friends,  his  chaplain  and  feeder.  The  servants, 
who  v^ere  numerous,  he  politely  ordered  to  the  next 
alehouse  : but  my  wife,  in  the  triumph  of  her  heart, 
insisted  on  entertaining  them  all ; for  which,  by  the 
l>y,  our  family  was  pinched  for  three  weeks  after. 
As  Mr.  Burchcll  had  hinted  to  us  the  day  before, 
that  he  was  making  some  proposals  of  marriage  to 
Miss  Wilmot,  my  son  George’s  former  mistress, 
this  a good  deal  damped  the  heartiness  of  his  re- 
ception : but  accident  in  some  measure  relieved  our 
embarrassment ; for  one  of  the  company  happening 
to  mention  her  name,  Mr.  Thornhill  observed  with 
an  oath,  that  he  never  knew  anything  more  absurd 
than  calling  such  a fright  a beauty : “ For  strike 
me  ugly,”  continued  lie,  “ if  I should  not  find  as 


3 6 THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 

much  pleasure  in  choosing  my  mistress  by  the  in- 
formation of  a lamp  under  the  clock  at  St.  Dun- 
stan’s.”  At  this  he  laughed,  and  so  did  we  : — 


too,  could  not  avoid  whispering  loud  enough  to  be 
heard,  that  he  had  an  infinite  fund  of  humor. 

After  dinner,  I began  with  my  usual  toast,  the 
Church ; for  this  I was  thanked  by  the  chaplain, 
as  he  said  the  Church  was  the  only  mistress  of  his 
affections.  — “ Come  tell  us  honestly,  Frank,”  said 
the  Squire,  with  his  usual  archness,  “ suppose  the 
Church,  your  present  mistress,  dressed  in  lawn 
sleeves,  on  one  hand,  and  Miss  Sophia,  with  no 
lawn  about  her,  on  the  other,  which  would  you  be 
for  ? ” — “ For  both,  to  be  sure,”  cried  the  chaplain. 

— “ Right,  Frank,”  cried  the  Squire,  “ for  may 
this  glass  suffocate  me,  but  a fine  girl  is  worth  all 
the  priestcraft  in  the  creation.  For  what  are  tithes 
and  tricks  but  an  imposition,  all  a confounded  im- 
posture, and  I can  prove  it.”  — “I  wish  you 
would,”  cried  my  son  Moses,  “ and  I think,”  con- 
tinued he,  “ that  I should  be  able  to  answer  you.” 

— “ Very  well.  Sir,”  cried  the  Squire,  who  imme- 
diately smoked  him,  and  winking  on  the  rest  of 
the  company  to  prepare  us  for  the  sport,  “ if  you 
are  for  a cool  argument  upon  that  subject,  I am 
ready  to  accept  the  challenge.  And  first,  whether 
are  you  for  managing  it  analogically,  or  dialogi- 
cally  ? ” — “I  am  for  managing  it  rationally,”  cried 
Moses,  quite  happy  at  being  permitted  to  dispute. 
“ Good  again,”  cried  the  Squire,  “ and  firstly,  of 
the  first,  I hope  you  *11  not  deny  that  whatever  is, 
is.  If  you  don’t  grant  me  that,  I can  go  no  fur- 
ther.” — “ Why,”  returned  Moses,  “ I think  I may 


ever  s 


successful  J Olivia, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


37 


grant  that,  and  make  the  best  of  it.”  — “I  hope 
too,”  returned  the  other,  “ you  ’ll  grant,  that  a part 
is  less  than  the  whole.”  — “ I grant  that  too,”  cried 
Moses,  “ it  is  hut  just  and  reasonable.”  — I hope,” 
cried  the  Squire,  “ you  will  not  deny,  that  the  two 
angles  of  a triangle  are  equal  to  two  right  ones.” 
— “ Nothing  can  be  plainer,”  returned  t’  other, 
and  looked  round  with  his  usual  importance.  — 
“ Very  well,”  cried  the  Squire,  speaking  very 
quick,  “ the  premises  being  thus  settled,  I proceed 
to  observe,  that  the  concatenation  of  self-existence, 
proceeding  in  a reciprocal  duplicate  ratio,  naturally 
produce  a problematical  dialogism,  which  in  some 
measure  proves  that  the  essence  of  spirituality  may 
be  referred  to  the  second  predicable.”  — “ Hold, 
hold,”  cried  the  other,  “ I deny  that : Ho  you 
think  I can  thus  tamely  submit  to  such  heterodox 
doctrines'?”  — “ What,”  replied  the  Squire,  as  if 
in  a passion,  “ not  submit ! Answer  me  one  plain 
question  : Do  you  think  Aristotle  right  when  he 
says,  that  relatives  are  related?”- — “Undoubt- 
edly,^ replied  the  other. — “If  so,  then,”  cried  the 
Squire,  “ answer  me  directly  to  what  I propose : 
Whether  do  you  judge  the  analytical  investigation 
of  the  first  part  of  my  enthymeme  deficient  secun- 
dum quoad,  or  quoad  minus  ? and  give  me  your 
reasons  : give  me  your  reasons,  I say,  directly.” — - 
“ I protest,”  cried  Moses,  “ I don’t  rightly  com- 
prehend the  force  of  your  reasoning ; but  if  it  be 
reduced  to  one  simple  proposition,  I fancy  it  may 
then  have  an  answer.”  — “ O,  Sir,”  cried  the 
Squire,  “ I am  your  most  humble  servant ; I find 
you  want  me  to  furnish  you  with  argument  and 
intellects  too.  No,  Sir,  there  I protest  you  are 


38  TEE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

too  hard  for  me.”  This  effectually  raised  the 
laugh  against  poor  Moses,  who  sat  the  only  dis- 
mal figure  in  a group  of  merry  faces  ; nor  did  he 
offer  a single  syllable  more  during  the  whole  en- 
tertainment. 

But  though  all  this  gave  me  no  pleasure,  it  had 
a very  different  effect  upon  Olivia,  who  mistook  it 
for  humor,  though  but  a mere  act  of  the  memory. 
She  thought  him,  therefore,  a very  fine  gentleman  ; 
and  such  as  consider  what  powerful  ingredients  a 
good  figure,  fine  clothes,  and  fortune  are  in  that 
character,  will  easily  forgive  her.  Mr.  Thornhill, 
notwithstanding  his  real  ignorance,  talked  with 
ease,  and  could  expatiate  upon  the  common  topics 
of  conversation  with  fluency.  It  is  not  surprising 
then  that  such  talents  should  win  the  affections  of 
a girl,  who  by  education  was  taught  to  value  an 
appearance  in  herself,  and  consequently  to  set  a 
value  upon  it  in  another. 

Upon  his  departure,  we  again  entered  into  a de- 
bate upon  the  merits  of  our  young  landlord.  As 
he  directed  his  looks  and  conversation  to  Olivia,  it 
was  no  longer  doubted  but  that  she  was  the  object 
that  induced  him  to  be  our  visitor.  Nor  did  she 
seem  to  be  much  displeased  at  the  innocent  raillery 
of  her  brother  and  sister  upon  this  occasion.  Even 
Deborah  herself  seemed  to  share  the  glory  of  the 
day,  and  exulted  in  her  daughter’s  victory,  as  if  it 
were  her  own.  “And  now,  my  dear,”  cried  she 
to  me,  “ I’  11  fairly  own,  that  it  was  I that  instruct- 
ed my  girls  to  encourage  our  landlord’s  addresses. 
I had  always  some  ambition,  and  you  now  see  that 
I was  right ; for  who  knows  how  this  may  end  ? ” — 
“Ay,  who  knows  that  indeed,”  answered  I,  with 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


39 

a groan  : “ for  my  part  I don’t  much  like  it ; and 
I could  have  been  better  pleased  with  one  that  was 
poor  and  honest,  than  this  line  gentleman  with  his 
fortune  and  infidelity ; for  depend  on ’t,  if  he  be 
what  I suspect  him,  no  free-thinker  shall  ever  have 
a child  of  mine.” 

“ Sure,  father,”  cried  Moses,  “ you  are  too  se- 
vere in  this  ; for  Heaven  will  never  arraign  him 
for  what  he  thinks,  but  for  what  he  does.  Every 
man  has  a thousand  vicious  thoughts,  which  arise 
without  his  power  to  suppress.  Thinking  freely  of 
religion  may  be  involuntary  with  this  gentleman  ; 
so  that,  allowing  his  sentiments  to  be  wrong,  yet  as 
he  is  purely  passive  in  his  assent,  he  is  no  more  to 
be  blamed  for  his  errors,  than  the  governor  of  a 
city  without  walls  for  the  shelter  he  is  obliged  to 
afford  an  invading  enemy.” 

“ True,  my  son,”  cried  I ; “ but,  if  the  governor 
invites  the  enemy  there,  he  is  justly  culpable.  And 
such  is  always  the  case  with  those  who  embrace 
error.  The  vice  does  not  lie  in  assenting  to  the 
proofs  they  see ; but  in  being  blind  to  many  of  the 
proofs  that  offer.  So  that,  though  our  erroneous 
opinions  be  involuntary  when  formed,  yet  as  we 
have  been  wilfully  corrupt,  or  very  negligent  in 
forming  them,  we  deserve  punishment  for  our  vice, 
or  contempt  for  our  folly.” 

My  wife  now  kept  up  the  conversation,  though 
not  the  argument : she  observed,  that  several  very 
prudent  men  of  our  acquaintance  were  free-think- 
ers, and  made  very  good  husbands  ; and  she  knew 
some  sensible  girls  that  had  skill  enough  to  make 
converts  of  their  spouses  : “ And  who  knows,  my 

dear,”  continued  she,  “ what  Olivia  may  be  able  to 


40 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


do.  The  girl  has  a great  deal  to  say  upon  every 
subject,  and  to  my  knowledge  is  very  well  skilled 
in  controversy.” 

“ Why,  my  dear,  what  controversy  can  she  have 
read  ? ” cried  I.  “ It  does  not  occur  to  me  that 
I ever  put  such  books  into  her  hands : you  cer- 
tainly over-rate  her  merit.”  — “ Indeed,  papa,”  re- 
plied Olivia,  “ she  does  not : I have  read  a great 
deal  of  controversy.  I have  read  the  disputes  be- 
tween Thwackum  and  Square ; the  controversy 
between  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Friday  the  savage, 
and  I am  now  employed  in  reading  the  controversy 
in  Religious  Courtship.”  — “ Very  well,”  cried  I, 
“ that ’s  a good  girl,  I find  you  are  perfectly  quali- 
fied for  making  converts ; and  so  go  help  your 
mother  to  make  the  gooseberry-pie.” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

An  Amour  which  promises  little  Good  For- 
tune, YET  MAY  BE  PRODUCTIVE  OF  MUCH. 

HE  next  morning  we  were  again  visited 
by  Mr.  Burchell,  though  I began,  for 
certain  reasons,  to  be  displeased  with 
the  frequency  of  his  return ; but  I could 
not  refuse  him  my  company  and  fireside.  It  is 
true  his  labor  more  than  requited  his  entertain- 
ment ; for  he  wrought  among  us  with  vigor,  and 
either  in  the  meadow  or  at  the  hay-rick  put  himself 
foremost.  Besides,  he  had  always  something  amus- 
ing to  say  that  lessened  our  toil,  and  was  at  once 
so  out  of  the  way,  and  yet  so  sensible,  that  I loved, 
laughed  at,  and  pitied  him.  My  only  dislike  arose 
from  an  attachment  he  discovered  to  my  daughter  : 
he  would,  in  a jesting  manner,  call  her  his  little 
mistress,  and  when  he  bought  each  of  the  girls  a 
set  of  ribbons,  hers  was  the  finest.  I knew  not 
how,  but  he  every  day  seemed  to  become  more  ami- 
able, his  wdt  to  improve,  and  his  simplicity  to  as- 
sume the  superior  airs  of  wisdom. 

Our  family  dined  in  the  field,  and  we  sat,  or 
rather  reclined,  round  a temperate  repast,  our  cloth 
spread  upon  the  hay,  while  Mr.  Burchell  gave 
cheerfulness  to  the  feast.  To  heighten  our  satis- 


42 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


faction,  two  blackbirds  answered  each  other  from 
opposite  hedges,  the  familiar  red-breast  came  and 
pecked  the  crumbs  from  our  hands,  and  every 
sound  seemed  but  the  echo  of  tranquillity.  “ I 
never  sit  thus,”  says  Sophia,  “ but  I think  of  the 
two  lovers  so  sweetly  described  by  Mr.  Gay,  who 
were  struck  dead  in  each  other’s  arms.  There  is 
something  so  pathetic  in  the  description,  that  I 
have  read  it  an  hundred  times  with  new  rapture.” 
— “In  my  opinion,”  cried  my  son,  “the  finest 
strokes  in  that  description  are  much  below  those  in 
the  Acis  and  Galatea  of  Ovid.  The  Roman  poet 
understands  the  use  of  contrast  better,  and  upon 
that  figure,  artfully  managed,  all  strength  in  the  pa- 
thetic depends.”  — “ It  is  remarkable,”  cried  Mr. 
Burchell,  “ that  both  the  poets  you  mention  have 
equally  contributed  to  introduce  a false  taste  into 
their  respective  countries,  by  loading  all  their  lines 
with  epithet.  Men  of  little  genius  found  them  most 
easily  imitated  in  their  defects,  and  English  poetry, 
like  that  in  the  latter  empire  of  Rome,  is  nothing 
at  present  but  a combination  of  luxuriant  images, 
without  plot  or  connection ; a string  of  epithets 
that  improve  the  sound,  without  carrying  on  the 
sense.  But  perhaps,  madam,  while  I thus  repre- 
hend others,  you  ’ll  think  it  just  that  I should  give 
them  an  opportunity  to  retaliate,  and  indeed  I have 
made  this  remark  only  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
introducing  to  the  company  a ballad,  which,  what- 
ever be  its  other  defects,  is,  I think,  at  least  free 
from  those  I have  mentioned.” 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


43 


A BALLAD. 

“ Turn,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  Dale, 
And  guide  my  lonely  way, 

To  where  you  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

“ For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow  ; 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  lengthening  as  I go.” 

“ Forbear,  my  son,”  the  Hermit  cries, 
“ To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  *, 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 


“ Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still ; 

And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 
I give  it  with  good  will. 


“Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate’er  my  cell  bestows  *, 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare. 

My  blessing  and  repose. 


( 


“No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 
To  slaughter  I condemn  j 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 
I learn  to  pity  them  : i 


“ But  from  the  mountain’s  grassy  side 
A guiltless  feast  I bring  ; 

A scrip  with  herbs  and  fruit  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 


i “ Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego 
All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong  $ 

Man  wants  but  little  here  belowj, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long.”  J \ 


Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends. 
His  gentle  accents  fell : 

The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 


44 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


* 


Far  in  a wilderness  obscure,  1 
The  lonely  mansion  lay, 

A refuge  to  the  neighboring  poor, 
And  strangers  led  astray. 


No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 
Required  a master’s  care  ; 

The  wicket,  opening  with  a latch, 
Received  the  harmless  pair. 


And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 
To  take  their  evening  rest, 

The  Hermit  trimmed  his  little  fire, 
And  cheered  his  pensive  guest : 


And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gayly  pressed,  and  smiled  $ 
And  skilled  in  legendary  lore 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 


Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries, 

The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger’s  woe  ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 

With  answering  care  opprest : 

“ And  whence,  unhappy  youth,”  he  cried, 
u The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

u From  better  habitations  spurned, 
Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 

Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturned, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

“ Alas  ! the  joys  that  fortune  brings, 

Are  trifling,  and  decay  5 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things,  j 
More  trifling  still  than  they.^ 

( “ And  what  is  friendship  but  a name, 

A charm  that  lulls  to  sleep  j , 

* 


45 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

A shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 
liut  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? f 

44  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair-one’s  jest : 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

44  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,”  he  said  : 

But  while  he  spoke,  a rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  lie  tray  ed. 

Surprised  he  sees  new  beauties  rise. 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view  ; 

Like  colors  o’er  the  morning  skies. 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast 
Alternate  spread  alarms : 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  contest 
A maid  in  all  her  charms. 

44  And  ah  l forgive  a stranger  rude, 

A wretch  forlorn,”  she  cried  ; 

44  Whose  feet  unhallowed  thus  intrude 
Where  Heaven  and  you  reside. 

u But  let  a maid  thy  pity  share. 

Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray  • 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

44  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A wealthy  lord  was  he : 

And  all  his  wealth  was  marked  as  mine, 

He  had  but  only  me. 

44  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms. 
Unnumbered  suitors  came; 

Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms,  > 

And  felt  or  feigned  a flame. 

44  Each  hour  a mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 

Among  the  rest  young  Edwin  bowed, 

But  never  talked  of  love. 


46  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD , 


“ In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  ; 

"Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 

But  these  were  all  to  me.) 

“ And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale, 

He  carolled  lays  of  love, 

His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 

And  music  to  the  grove. 

“ The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 

Could  naught  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

* 41  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 

With  charms  inconstant  shine  5 

Their  charms  were  Ijjs,  but  woe  to  me, 
TheirVonstancy  was  mine,  j 

u For  still  I tried  each  fickle  art, 
Importunate  and  vain  ; 

And  while  his  passion  touched  my  heart, 

I triumphed  in  his  pain  : 

“ Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn 
He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 

And  sought  a solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret  where  he  died. 

“ But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay  *, 

I ’ll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay  : — 

And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I ’ll  lay  me  down  and  die  ; 

’T  was  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I.” 

u Forbid,  it  Heaven  ! ” the  Hermit  cried, 
And  clasped  her  to  his  breast  *. 

The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide,  — 
’T  was  Edwin’s  self  that  pressed. 

u Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


47 


Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restored,  to  love  and  thee. 

“ Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

Aud  every  care  resign  : 

And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life,  — my  all  that ’s  mine  ? 

“No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We  ’ll  live  and  love  so  true  5 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart, 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin’s  too.” 

While  this  ballad  was  reading,  Sophia  seemed  to 
mix  an  air  of  tenderness  with  her  approbation. 
But  our  tranquillity  was  soon  disturbed  by  the  re- 
port of  a gun  just  by  us,  and  immediately  after  a 
man  was  seen  bursting  through  the  hedge,  to  take 
up  the  game  he  had  killed.  This  sportsman  was 
the  Squire’s  chaplain,  who  had  shot  one  of  the 
blackbirds  that  so  agreeably  entertained  us.  So 
loud  a report,  and  so  near,  startled  my  daughters  ; 
and  I could  perceive  that  Sophia,  in  the  fright,  had 
thrown  herself  into  Mr.  Burchell’s  arms  for  pro- 
tection. The  gentleman  came  up,  and  asked  par- 
don for  having  disturbed  us,  affirming  that  he  was 
ignorant  of  our  being  so  near.  He  therefore  sat 
down  by  my  youngest  daughter,  and  sportsman- 
like, offered  her  what  he  had  killed  that  morning. 
She  was  going  to  refuse,  but  a private  look  from 
her  mother  soon  induced  her  to  correct  the  mis- 
take, and  accept  his  present,  though  with  some  re- 
luctance. My  wife,  as  usual,  discovered  her  pride 
in  a whisper,  observing,  that  Sophy  had  made  a 
conquest  of  the  chaplain,  as  well  as  her  sister  had 
of  the  Squire.  I suspected,  however,  with  more 
probability,  that  her  affections  were  placed  upon  a 


48  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

different  object.  The  chaplain’s  errand  was  to  in- 
form us,  that  Mr.  Thornhill  had  provided  music 
and  refreshments,  and  intended  that  night  giving 
the  young  ladies  a ball  by  moonlight,  on  the  grass- 
plat  before  our  door.  “ Nor  can  I deny,”  contin- 
ued he,  “ but  I have  an  interest  in  being  first  to 
deliver  this  message,  as  I expect  for  my  reward  to 
be  honored  with  Miss  Sophy’s  hand  as  a partner. 
To  this  my  girl  replied,  that  she  should  have  no 
objection,  if  she  could  do  it  with  honor ; “ But 
here,”  continued  she,  “ is  a gentleman,”  looking 
at  Mr.  Burchell,  “ who  has  been  my  companion  in 
the  task  for  the  day,  and  it  is  fit  he  should  share 
in  its  amusements.”  Mr.  Burchell  returned  her  a 
compliment  for  her  intentions  ; but  resigned  her 
up  to  the  chaplain,  adding  that  he  was  to  go  that 
night  five  miles,  being  invited  to  an  harvest  sup- 
per. His  refusal  appeared  to  me  a little  extraor- 
dinary, nor  could  I conceive  how  so  sensible  a girl 
as  my  youngest,  could  thus  prefer  a man  of  broken 
fortunes  to  one  whose  expectations  were  much 
greater.  But  as  men  are  most  capable  of  distin- 
guishing merit  in  women,  so  the  ladies  often  form 
the  truest  judgments  of  us.  The  two  sexes  seem 
placed  as  spies  upon  each  other,  and  are  furnished 
with  different  abilities,  adapted  for  mutual  inspec- 
tion. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Two  Ladies  of  great  Distinction  introduced. 
— Superior  Finery  ever  seems  to  confer 
Superior  Breeding. 

R.  BURCHELL  had  scarce  taken  leave, 
and  Sophia  consented  to  dance  with 
the  chaplain,  when  my  little  ones  came 
running  out  to  tell  us  that  the  Squire 
was  come  with  a crowd  of  company.  Upon  our 
return,  we  found  our  landlord,  with  a couple  of 
under-gentlemen  and  two  young  ladies,  richly 
dressed,  whom  he  introduced  as  women  of  very 
great  distinction  and  fashion  from  town.  We 
happened  not  to  have  chairs  enough  for  the  whole 
company,  but  Mr.  Thornhill  immediately  proposed 
that  every  gentleman  should  sit  in  a lady’s  lap. 
This  I positively  objected  to,  notwithstanding  a 
look  of  disapprobation  from  my  wife.  Moses  was 
therefore  despatched  to  borrow  a couple  of  chairs  ; 
and  as  we  were  in  want  of  ladies  to  make  up  a set 
at  country  dances,  the  two  gentlemen  went  with 
him  in  quest  of  a couple  of  partners  Chairs  and 
partners  were  soon  provided.  The  gentlemen  re- 
turned with  my  neighbor  Flamborough’s  rosy 
daughters,  flaunting  with  red  top-knots.  But  an 
unlucky  circumstance  was  not  adverted  to  ; though 

4 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


5° 

the  Miss  Flamboroughs  were  reckoned  the  very 
best  of  dancers  in  the  parish,  and  understood  the 
jig  and  the  round-about  to  perfection,  yet  they 
were  totally  unacquainted  with  country  dances. 
This  at  first  discomposed  us  : however,  after  a 
little  shoving  and  dragging,  they  at  last  went 
merrily  on.  Our  music  consisted  of  two  fiddles, 
with  a pipe  and  tabor.  The  moon  shone  bright, 
Mr.  Thornhill  and  my  eldest  daughter  led  up  the 
ball,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  spectators  ; for  the 
neighbors,  hearing  what  was  going  forward,  came 
flocking  about  us.  My  girl  moved  with  so  much 
grace  and  vivacity,  that  my  wife  could  not  avoid 
discovering  the  pride  of  her  heart,  by  assuring  me, 
that  though  the  little  chit  did  it  so  cleverly,  all  the 
steps  were  stolen  from  herself.  The  ladies  of  the 
town  strove  hard  to  be  equally  easy,  but  without 
success.  They  swam,  sprawled,  languished,  and 
frisked,  but  all  would  not  do ; the  gazers  indeed 
owned  that  it  was  fine ; but  neighbor  Flambor- 
ougli  observed,  that  Miss  Livy’s  feet  seemed  as 
pat  to  the  music  as  its  echo.  After  the  dance 
had  continued  about  an  hour,  the  two  ladies,  who 
were  apprehensive  of  catching  cold,  moved  to  break 
up  the  ball.  One  of  them,  I thought,  expressed 
her  sentiments  upon  this  occasion  in  a very  coarse 
manner,  when  she  observed,  that  by  the  living 
jingo  she  was  all  of  a muck  of  sweat.  Upon  our  re- 
turn to  the  house,  we  found  a very  elegant  cold 
supper,  which  Mr.  Thornhill  had  ordered  to  be 
brought  with  him.  The  conversation  at  this  time 
was  more  reserved  than  before.  The  two  ladies 
threw  my  girls  quite  into  the  shade,  for  they  would 
talk  of  nothing  but  high  life,  and  high-lived  com- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


51 

pany,  with  other  fashionable  topics,  such  as  pic- 
tures, taste,  Shakespeare,  and  the  musical  glasses. 
’T  is  true  they  once  or  twice  mortified  us  sensibly 
by  slipping  out  an  oath ; but  that  appeared  to  me 
as  the  surest  symptom  of  their  distinction  (though 
I am  since  informed  that  swearing  is  perfectly  un- 
fashionable). Their  finery,  however,  threw  a veil 
over  any  grossness  in  their  conversation.  My 
daughters  seemed  to  regard  their  superior  accom- 
plishments with  envy,  and  what  appeared  amiss 
was  ascribed  to  tip-top  quality  breeding.  But  the 
condescension  of  the  ladies  was  still  superior  to 
their  other  accomplishments.  One  of  them  ob- 
served, that  had  Miss  Olivia  seen  a little  more  of 
the  world  it  would  greatly  improve  her.  To 
which  the  other  added,  that  a single  winter  in 
town  would  make  little  Sophia  quite  another 
thing.  My  wife  warmly  assented  to  both,  adding, 
that  there  was  nothing  she  more  ardently  wished 
than  to  give  her  girls  a single  winter’s  polishing. 
To  this  I could  not  help  replying,  that  their  breed- 
ing was  already  superior  to  their  fortune;  and 
that  greater  refinement  would  only  serve  to  make 
their  poverty  ridiculous,  and  give  them  a taste  for 
pleasures  they  had  no  right  to  possess.  — “ And 
what  pleasures,”  cried  Mr.  Thornhill,  “do  they 
not  deserve  to  possess,  who  have  so  much  in  their 
power  to  bestow  ? As  for  my  part,”  continued 
he,  “ my  fortune  is  pretty  large,  love,  liberty,  and 
pleasure  are  my  maxims  ; but  curse  me,  if  a settle- 
ment of  half  my  estate  could  give  my  charming 
Olivia  pleasure,  it  should  be  hers  ; and  the  only 
favor  I would  ask  in  return  would  be  to  add  my- 
self to  the  benefit.”  I was  not  such  a stranger  to 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


5* 

the  world  as  to  be  ignorant  that  this  was  the  fash- 
ionable cant  to  disguise  the  insolence  of  the  basest 
proposal,  but  I made  an  effort  to  suppress  my  re- 
sentment. “ Sir,”  cried  I,  “ the  family  which  you 
now  condescend  to  favor  with  your  company,  has 
been  bred  with  as  nice  a sense  of  honor  as  you. 
Any  attempts  to  injure  that,  may  be  attended  with 
very  dangerous  consequences.  Honor,  Sir,  is  our 
only  possession  at  present,  and  of  that  last  treas- 
ure we  must  be  particularly  careful.”  — I was  soon 
sorry  for  the  warmth  with  which  I had  spoken 
this,  when  the  young  gentleman,  grasping  my 
hand,  swore  he  commended  my  spirit,  though  he 
disapproved  my  suspicions.  “ As  to  your  present 
hint,”  continued  he,  “ I protest  nothing  was  far- 
ther from  my  heart  than  such  a thought.  No,  by 
all  that ’s  tempting,  the  virtue  that  will  stand  a 
regular  siege  was  never  to  my  taste ; for  all  my 
amours  are  carried  by  a coup  de  main.” 

The  two  ladies,  who  affected  to  be  ignorant  of 
the  rest,  seemed  highly  displeased  with  this  last 
stroke  of  freedom,  and  began  a very  discreet  and 
serious  dialogue  upon  virtue  : in  this  my  wife,  the 
chaplain,  and  I soon  joined  ; and  the  Squire  him- 
self was  at  last  brought  to  confess  a sense  of  sorrow 
for  his  former  excesses.  We  talked  of  the  pleas- 
ures of  temperance,  and  of  the  sunshine  in  the 
mind  unpolluted  with  guilt.  I was  so  well  pleased, 
that  my  little  ones  were  kept  up  beyond  the 
usual  time  to  be  edified  by  so  much  good  conversa- 
tion. Mr.  Thornhill  even  went  beyond  me,  and 
demanded  if  I had  any  objection  to  giving  prayers. 
I joyfully  embraced  the  proposal,  and  in  this  man- 
ner the  night  was  passed  in  a most  comfortable 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


53 


way,  till  at  last  the  company  began  to  think  of 
returning.  The  ladies  seemed  very  unwilling  to 
part  with  my  daughters,  for  whom  they  had  con- 
ceived a particular  affection,  and  joined  in  a re- 
quest to  have  the  pleasure  of  their  company  at 
home.  The  Squire  seconded  the  proposal,  and 
my  wife  added  her  entreaties  ; the  girls  too  looked 
upon  me  as  if  they  wished  to  go.  In  this  per- 
plexity I made  two  or  three  excuses,  which  my 
daughters  as  readily  removed ; so  that  at  last  I 
was  obliged  to  give  a peremptory  refusal,  for  which 
we  had  nothing  but  sullen  looks  and  short  answers 
the  whole  day  ensuing. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  Family  endeavors  to  cope  with  their 
Betters.  — The  Miseries  of  the  Boor  when 

THEY  ATTEMPT  TO  APPEAR  ABOVE  THEIR  CIR- 
CUMSTANCES. 

NOW  began  to  find  that  all  my  long 
and  painful  lectures  upon  temperance, 
simplicity,  and  contentment,  were  en- 
tirely disregarded.  The  distinctions 
lately  paid  us  by  our  betters  awakened  that  pride 
which  I had  laid  asleep,  but  not  removed.  Our 
windows  again,  as  formerly,  were  filled  with 
washes  for  the  neck  and  face.  The  sun  was 
dreaded  as  an  enemy  to  the  skin  without  doors, 
and  the  fire  as  a spoiler  of  the  complexion  within. 
My  wife  observed,  that  rising  too  early  would  hurt 
her  daughters’  eyes,  that  working  after  dinner  would 
redden  their  noses,  and  she  convinced  me  that  the 
hands  never  looked  so  white  as  when  they  did 
nothing.  Instead  therefore  of  finishing  George’s 
shirts,  we  now  had  them  new-modelling  their  old 
gauzes,  or  flourishing  upon  catgut.  The  poor 
Miss  Flamboroughs,  their  former  gay  companions, 
were  cast  off'  as  mean  acquaintance,  and  the  whole 
conversation  ran  upon  high  life,  and  high-lived 
company,  with  pictures,  taste,  Shakespeare,  and 
the  musical  glasses. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


55 

Bat  we  could  have  borne  all  this,  had  not  a for- 
tune-telling gypsy  come  to  raise  us  into  perfect 
sublimity.  The  tawny  sibyl  no  sooner  appeared, 
than  my  girls  came  running  to  me  for  a shilling  a- 
piece  to  cross  her  hand  with  silver.  To  say  the 
truth,  I was  tired  of  being  always  wise,  and  could 
not  help  gratifying  their  request,  because  I loved 
to  see  them  happy.  I gave  each  of  them  a shilling  : 
though,  for  the  honor  of  the  family,  it  must  be  ob- 
served, that  they  never  went  without  money  them- 
selves, as  my  wife  always  generously  let  them  have 
a guinea  each,  to  keep  in  their  pockets  ; but  with 
strict  injunctions  never  to  change  it.  After  they 
had  been  closeted  up  with  the  fortune-teller  for 
some  time,  I knew  by  their  looks,  upon  their  re- 
turning, that  they  had  been  promised  something 
great.  “ Well,  my  girls,  how  have  you  sped  ? 
Tell  me,  Livy,  has  the  fortune-teller  given  thee  a 
pennyworth  ? ” — “I  protest,  papa,”  says  the  girl, 
“ I believe  she  deals  with  somebody  that  *s  not 
right ; for  she  positively  declared,  that  I am  to  be 
married  to  a Squire  in  less  than  a twelvemonth ! ” 
— “ Well,  now,  Sophy,  my  child,”  said  I,  “ and 
what  sort  of  a husband  are  you  to  have  ? ” — “ Sir,” 
replied  she,  “ I am  to  have  a Lord  soon  after  my 
sister  has  married  the  Squire.”  — “ How,”  cried 
I,  “ is  that  all  you  are  to  have  for  your  two  shil- 
lings ? Only  a Lord  and  a Squire  for  two  shil- 
lings ! You  fools,  I could  have  promised  you  a 
Prince  and  a Nabob  for  half  the  money.” 

This  curiosity  of  theirs,  however,  was  attended 
with  very  serious  effects  : we  now  began  to  think 
ourselves  designed  by  the  stars  to  something  ex- 
alted, and  already  anticipated  our  future  grand- 
eur. 


5 6 THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

(It  has  been  a thousand  times  observed,  and  I 
must  observe  it  once  more,  that  the  hours  we  pass 
with  happy  prospects  in  view,  are  more  pleasing 
than  those  crowned  with  fruition.}  In  the  first 
case,  we  cook  the  dish  to  our  own  appetite ; in  the 
latter,  nature  cooks  it  for  us.  It  is  impossible  to 
repeat  the  train  of  agreeable  reveries  we  called  up 
for  our  entertainment.  We  looked  upon  our  for- 
tunes as  once  more  rising  ; and  as  the  whole  par- 
ish asserted  that  the  Squire  was  in  love  with  my 
daughter,  she  was  actually  so  with  him  ; for  they 
persuaded  her  into  the  passion.  In  this  agreeable 
interval  my  wife  had  the  most  lucky  dreams  in 
the  world,  which  she  took  care  to  tell  us  every 
morning,  with  great  solemnity  and  exactness.  It 
was  one  night  a coffin  and  cross-bones,  the  sign  of 
an  approaching  wedding : at  another  time  she 
imagined  her  daughters’  pockets  filled  with  far- 
things, a certain  sign  they  would  shortly  be  stuffed 
with  gold.  The  girls  themselves  had  their  omens. 
They  felt  strange  kisses  on  their  lips ; they  saw 
rings  in  the  candle ; purses  bounced  from  the  fire  ; 
and  true-love  knots  lurked  in  the  bottom  of  every 
teacup. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week  we  received  a card 
from  the  town  ladies ; in  which,  with  their  com- 
pliments, they  hoped  to  see  all  our  family  at 
church  the  Sunday  following.  All  Saturday  morn- 
ing I could  perceive,  in  consequence  of  this,  my 
wife  and  daughters  in  close  conference  together, 
and  now  and  then  glancing  at  me  with  looks  that 
betrayed  a latent  plot.  To  be  sincere,  I had 
strong  suspicions  that  some  absurd  proposal  was 
preparing  for  appearing  with  splendor  the  next 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


57 

day.  In  the  evening  they  began  their  operations 
in  a very  regular  manner,  and  my  wife  undertook 
to  conduct  the  siege.  After  tea,  when  I seemed 
in  spirits,  she  began  thus : “ I fancy  Charles, 
my  dear,  we  shall  have  a great  deal  of  good  com- 
pany at  our  church  to-morrow.”  — “ Perhaps  we 
may,  my  dear,”  returned  I;  “though  you  need 
be  under  no  uneasiness  about  that,  you  shall  have 
a sermon  whether  there  be  or  not.”  — “That  is 
what  I expect,”  returned  she ; “ but  I think,  my 
dear,  we  ought  to  appear  there  as  decently  as 
^possible,  for  who  knows  what  may  happen  % ” — 
“ Your  precautions,”  replied  I,  “ are  highly  com- 
mendable. A decent  behavior  and  appearance  in 
church  is  what  charms  me.  We  should  be  de- 
vout and  humble,  cheerful  and  serene.”  — “ Yes,” 
cried  she,  “I  know  that;  but  I mean  we  should 
go  there  in  as  proper  a manner  as  possible  ; not 
altogether  like  the  scrubs  about  us.”  — “ You  are 
quite  right,  my  dear,”  returned  I,  “ and  I was 
going  to  make  the  very  same  proposal.  The 
proper  manner  of  going  is,  to  go  there  as  early  as 
possible,  to  have  time  for  meditation  before  the 
service  begins.”  — “ Phoo,  Charles,”  interrupted 
she,  “ all  that  is  very  true;  but  not  what  I would 
be  at.  I mean,  we  should  go  there  genteelly. 
You  know  the  church  is  two  miles  off,  and  I pro- 
test I don’t  like  to  see  my  daughters  trudging  up 
to  their  pew  all  blowzed  aud  red  with  walking, 
and  looking  for  all  the  world  as  if  they  had  been 
winners  at  a smock  race.  Now,  my  dear,  my 
proposal  is  this  : there  are  our  two  plough-horses, 
the  colt  that  has  been  in  our  family  these  nine 
years,  and  his  companion  Blackberry,  that  has 


58  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

scarce  done  an  earthly  thing  for  this  month  past. 
They  are  both  grown  fat  and  lazy.  Why  should 
not  they  do  something  as  well  as  we  ? And  let 
me  tell  you,  when  Moses  has  trimmed  them  up  a 
little,  they  will  cut  a very  tolerable  figure.” 

To  this  proposal  I objected,  that  walking  would 
be  twenty  times  more  genteel  than  such  a paltry 
conveyance,  as  Blackberry  was  wall-eyed,  and  the 
colt  wanted  a tail ; that  they  had  never  been 
broke  to  the  rein ; but  had  an  hundred  vicious 
tricks ; and  that  we  had  but  one  saddle  and  pil- 
lion in  the  whole  house.  All  these  objections,  how- 
ever were  overruled  ; so  that  I was  obliged  to 
comply.  The  next  morning  I perceived  them  not 
a little  busy  in  collecting,  such  materials  as  might 
be  necessary  for  the  expedition ; but  as  1 found  it 
would  be  a business  of  time,  I walked  on  to  the 
church  before,  and  they  promised  speedily  to  fol- 
low. I waited  near  an  hour  in  the  reading  desk 
for  their  arrival ; but  not  finding  them  come 
as  expected,  I was  obliged  to  begin,  and  went 
through  the  service,  not  without  some  uneasiness 
at  finding  them  absent.  This  was  increased  when 
all  was  finished,  and  no  appearance  of  the  family. 
I therefore  walked  back  by  the  horseway,  which 
was  five  miles  round,  though  the  footway  was  but 
two,  and  when  got  about  half  way  home  perceived 
the  procession  marching  slowly  forward  towards 
the  church ; my  son,  my  wife,  and  the  two  little 
ones  exalted  on  one  horse,  and  my  two  daughters 
upon  the  other.  I demanded  the  cause  of  their 
delay  ; but  I soon  found  by  their  looks  they  had 
met  with  a thousand  misfortunes  on  the  road. 
The  horses  had  at  first  refused  to  move  from  the 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


59 

door,  till  Mr.  Burchell  was  kind  enough  to  beat 
them  forward  for  about  two  hundred  yards  with 
his  cudgel.  Next  the  straps  of  my  wife’s  pil- 
lion broke  down,  and  they  were  obliged  to  stop 
to  repair  them  before  they  could  proceed.  After 
that,  one  of  the  horses  took  it  into  his  head  to 
stand  still,  and  neither  blows  nor  entreaties  could 
prevail  with  him  to  proceed.  He  was  just  recov- 
ering from  this  dismal  situation  when  I found 
them  ; but  perceiving  everything  safe,  I own  their 
present  mortification  did  not  much  displease  me, 
as  it  would  give  me  many  opportunities  of  future 
triumph,  and.  teach  my  daughters  more  humility. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  Family  still  resolve  to  hold  up  their 

Heads. 

ICHAELMAS  eve  happening  on  the 
next  day,  we  were  invited  to  burn 
nuts  and  play  tricks  at  neighbor  Elam- 

borough’s.  Our  late  mortifications  had 

humbled  us  a little,  or  it  is  probable  we  might 
have  rejected  such  an  invitation  with  contempt ; 
however,  we  suffered  ourselves  to  be  happy.  Our 
honest  neighbor’s  goose  and  dumplings  were  fine, 
and  the  lamb’s-wool,  even,  in  the  opinion  of  my 
wife,  who  was  a connoisseur,  was  excellent.  It  is 
true,  his  manner  of  telling  stories  was  not  quite  so 
well.  They  were  very  long,  and  very  dull,  and 
all  about  himself,  and  we  had  laughed  at  them  ten 
times  before  : however,  we  were  kind  enough  to 
laugh  at  them  once  more. 

Mr.  Burchell,  who  was  of  the  party,  was  always 
fond  of  seeing  some  innocent  amusement  going 
forward,  and  set  the  boys  and  girls  to  blind-man’s- 
buff.  My  wife  too  was  persuaded  to  join  in  the 
diversion,  and  it  gave  me  pleasure  to  think  she 
was  not  yet  too  old.  In  the  mean  time,  my 
neighbor  and*  I looked  on,  laughed  at  every  feat, 
and  praised  our  own  dexterity  when  .we  were 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


61 


young.  Hot  cockles  succeeded  next,  questions 
and  commands  followed  that,  and,  last  of  all,  they 
sat  down  to  hunt  the  slipper.  As  every  person 
may  not  be  acquainted  with  this  primeval  pas- 
time, it  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  that  the  com- 
pany at  this  play  plant  themselves  in  a ring  upon 
the  ground,  all  except  one  who  stands  in  the  mid- 
dle, whose  business  it  is  to  catch  a shoe,  which  the 
company  shove  about  under  their  hams  from  one 
to  another,  something  like  a weaver’s  shuttle. 
As  it  is  impossible,  in  this  case,  for  the  lady  who 
is  up  to  face  all  the  company  at  once,  the  great 
beauty  of  the  play  lies  in  hitting  her  a thump  with 
the  heel  of  the  shoe  on  that  side  least  capable  of 
making  a defence.  It  was  in  this  manner  that 
my  eldest  daughter  was  hemmed  in,  and  thumped 
about,  all  blowzed,  in  spirits,  and  bawling  for  fair 
play,  fair  play,  with  a voice  that  might  deafen  a 
ballad  singer,  when,  confusion  on  confusion,  who 
should  enter  the  room  but  our  two  great  acquaint- 
ances from  town,  Lady  Blarney  and  Miss  Carolina 
Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  ! Description  would 
but  beggar,  therefore  it  is  unnecessary  to  describe 
this  new  mortification.  Death  ! To  be  seen  by 
' ladies  of  such  high  breeding  in  such  vulgar  atti- 
tudes ! Nothing  better  could  ensue  from  such  a 
vulgar  play  of  Mr.  Flamborough’s  proposing. 
We  seemed  stuck  to  the  ground  for  some  time, 
as  if  actually  petrified  with  amazement. 

The  two  ladies  had  been  at  our  house  to  see  us, 
and  finding  us  from  home,  came  after  us  hither,  as 
they  were  uneasy  to  know  what  accident  could 
have  kept  us  from  church  the  day  before.  Olivia 
undertook  to  be  our  prolocutor,  and  delivered  the 


62 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


whole  in  a summary  way,  only  saying,  “ Wc  were  ' 
thrown  from  our  horses/'  At  which  account  the 
ladies  were  greatly  concerned  ; but  being  told  the 
family  received  no  hurt,  they  were  extremely  glad  ; 
but  being  informed  that  we  were  almost  killed  by 
the  fright,  they  were  vastly  sorry  ; but  hearing  that 
we  had  a very  good  night,  they  were  extremely 
glad  again.  Nothing  could  exceed  their  complai- 
sance to  my  daughters ; their  professions  the  last 
evening  were  warm,  but  now  they  were  ardent. 
They  protested  a desire  of  having  a more  lasting 
acquaintance.  Lady  Blarney  was  particularly  at- 
tached to  Olivia ; Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina 
Amelia  Skeggs  (I  love  to  give  the  whole  name) 
took  a greater  fancy  to  her  sister.  They  sup- 
ported the  conversation  between  themselves,  while 
my  daughters  sat  silent,  admiring  their  exalted 
breeding.  But  as  every  reader,  however  beggarly 
himself,  is  fond  of  high-lived  dialogues,  with  anec- 
dotes of  Lords,  Ladies,  and  Knights  of  the  Garter, 

I must  beg  leave  to  give  him  the  concluding  part 
of  the  present  conversation. 

“ All  that  I know  of  the  matter,”  cried  Miss 
Skeggs,  “ is  this,  that  it  may  be  true,  or  it  may 
not  be  true ; but  this  I can  assure  your  Ladyship, 
that  the  whole  rout  was  in  amaze.  His  Lordship 
turned  all  manner  of  colors,  my  Lady  fell  into  a 
swoon  ; but  Sir  Tomkyn,  drawing  his  sword,  swore 
he  was  hers  to  the  last  drop  of  his  blood.” 

“ Well,”  replied  our  Peeress,  “ this  I can  say, 
that  the  Duchess  never  told  me  a syllable  of  the 
matter,  and  I believe  her  Grace  would  keep  noth- 
ing a secret  from  me.  This  you  may  depend  on 
as  fact,  that,  the-  next  morning  my  Lord  Duke 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


63 


cried  out  three  times  to  his  valet-de-chambre, ‘ Jer- 
nigan, Jernigan,  Jernigan,  bring  me  my  garters/  ” 

But  previously  I should  have  mentioned  the 
very  impolite  behavior  of  Mr.  Burchell,  who, 
during  this  discourse,  sat  with  his  face  turned  to 
the  fire,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  every  sentence 
would  cry  out  fudge,  an  expression  which  dis- 
pleased us  all,  and  in  some  measure  damped  the 
rising  spirit  of  the  conversation. 

“ Besides,  my  dear  Skeggs,”  continued  our  Peer- 
ess, “ there  is  nothing  of  this  in  the  copy  of  verses 
that  Dr.  Burdock  made  upon  the  occasion.” 
Fudge  ! 

“ I am  surprised  at  that,”  cried  Miss  Skeggs ; 
“ for  he  seldom  leaves  anything  out,  as  he  writes 
only  for  his  own  amusement.  But  can  your  Lady- 
ship favor  me  with  a sight  of  them  ? ” Fudge ! 

“ My  dear  creature,”  replied  our  Peeress,  “ do 
you  think  I carry  such  things  about  me  ? Though 
they  are  very  fine  to  be  sure,  and  I think  myself 
something  of  a judge  ; at  least  I know  what  pleases 
myself.  Indeed,  I was  ever  an  admirer  of  all  Doc- 
tor Burdock’s  little  pieces ; for  except  what  he 
does,  and  our  dear  Countess  at  Han  over- Square, 
there’s  nothing  comes  out  but  the  most  lowest 
stuff  in  nature ; not  a bit  of  high  life  among 
them.”  Fudge ! 

“ Your  Ladyship  should  except,”  says  t’other, 
“ your  own  things  in  the  ‘Lady’s  Magazine.’  I 
hope  you  ’ll  say  there ’s  nothing  low-lived  there  ? 
But  I suppose  we  are  to  have  no  more  from  that 
quarter  1 ” Fudge  ! 

“ Why,  my  dear,”  says  the  Lady,  “ you  know 
my  reader  and  companion  has  left  me,  to  be  mar- 


64  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

ried  to  Captain  Roach,  and  as  my  poor  eyes  won’t 
suffer  me  to  write  myself,  I have  been  for  some 
time  looking  out  for  another.  A proper  person  is 
no  easy  matter  to  find,  and  to  be  sure  thirty  pounds 
a year  is  a small  stipend  for  a well-bred  girl  of 
character,  that  can  read,  write,  and  behave  in  com- 
pany ; as  for  the  chits  about  town,  there  is  no 
bearing  them  about  one.”  Fudge  ! 

“ That  I know,”  cried  Miss  Skeggs,  “ by  expe- 
rience. Tor  of  the  three  companions  I had  this 
last  half  year,  one  of  them  refused  to  do  plain 
work  an  hour  in  the  day,  another  thought  twenty- 
five  guineas  a year  too  small  a salary,  and  I was 
obliged  to  send  away  the  third,  because  I suspected 
an  intrigue  with  the  chaplain.  Virtue,  my  dear 
Lady  Blarney,  virtue  is  worth  any  price ; but 
where  is  that  to  be  found  ? ” Fudge  ! 

My  wife  had  been  for  a long  time  all  attention 
to  this  discourse  ; but  was  particularly  struck  with 
the  latter  part  of  it.  Thirty  pounds  and  twenty- 
five  guineas  a year  made  fifty-six  pounds  five  shil- 
lings English  money,  all  which  was  in  a manner 
going  a-begging,  and  might  easily  be  secured  in 
the  family.  She  for  a moment  studied  my  looks 
for  approbation  ; and,  to  own  a truth,  I was  of 
opinion,  that  two  such  places  would  fit  our  two 
daughters  exactly.  Besides,  if  the  Squire  had 
any  real  affection  for  my  eldest  daughter,  this 
would  be  the  way  to  make  her  every  way  qualified 
for  her  fortune.  My  wife,  therefore,  was  resolved 
that  we  should  not  be  deprived  of  such  advantages 
for  want  of  assurance,  and  undertook  to  harangue 
for  the  family.  “I  hope,”  cried  she,  “ your  Lady- 
ships will  pardon  my  present  presumption.  It  is 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  65 

true,  we  have  no  right  to  pretend  to  such  favors ; 
but  yet  it  is  natural  for  me  to  wish  putting  my 
children  forward  in  the  world.  And  I will  be 
bold  to  say  my  two  girls  have  had  a pretty  good 
education,  and  capacity,  at  least  the  country  can’t 
show  better.  They  can  read,  write,  and  cast  ac- 
counts ,*  they  understand  their  needle,  broadstitch, 
cross  and  change,  and  all  manner  of  plain  work  ; 
they  can  pink,  point,  and  frill ; and  know  some- 
thing of  music ; they  can  do  up  small-clothes, 
work  upon  catgut ; my  eldest  can  cut  paper,  and 
my  youngest  has  a very  pretty  manner  of  telling 
fortunes  upon  the  cards.”  Fudge  ! 

When  she  had  delivered  this  pretty  piece  of  elo- 
quence, the  two  ladies  looked  at  each  other  a few 
minutes  in  silence,  with  an  air  of  doubt  and  impor- 
tance. At  last,  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia 
Skeggs  condescended  to  observe,  that  the  young 
ladies,  from  the  opinion  she  could  form  of  them 
from  so  slight  an  acquaintance,  seemed  very  fit  for 
such  employments:  “But  a thing  of  this  kind, 
Madam,”  cried  she,  addressing  my  spouse,  “ re- 
quires a thorough  examination  into  characters,  and 
a more  perfect  knowledge  of  each  other.  Not, 
Madam,”  continued  she,  “ that  I in  the  least  sus- 
pect the  young  ladies’  virtue,  prudence,  and  dis- 
cretion ; but  there  is  a form  in  these  things,  Mad- 
am, there  is  a form.” 

Mv  wife  approved  her  suspicions  very  much, 
observing,  that  she  was  very  apt  to  be  suspicious 
herself ; but  referred  her  to  all  the  neighbors  for 
a character : hut  this  our  Peeress  declined  as  un- 
necessary, alleging  that  our  cousin  Thornhill’s 
recommendation  would  be  sufficient,  and  upon  this 
we  rested  our  petition. 

5 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Fortune  seems  resolved  to  humble  the  Fam- 
ily of  Wakefield.  — Mortifications  are 

OFTEN  MORE  PAINFUL  THAN  REAL  CALAMI- 
TIES. 

HEN  we  were  returned  home,  the  night 
was  dedicated  to  schemes  of  future  con- 
quest. Deborah  exerted  much  sagacity 
in  conjecturing  which  of  the  two  girls 
was  likely  to  have  the  best  place,  and  most  opportu- 
nities of  seeing  good  company.  The  only  obsta- 
cle to  our  preferment  was  in  obtaining  the  Squire’s 
recommendation  ; but  he  had  already  shown  us 
too  many  instances  of  his  friendship  to  doubt  of  it 
now.  Even  in  bed  my  wife  kept  up  the  usual 
theme:  “Well,  faith,  my  dear  Charles,  between 
ourselves,  I think  we  have  made  an  excellent  day’s 
work  of  it.”  — “ Pretty  well,”  cried  I,  not  know- 
ing what  to  say.  — “ What,  only  pretty  well  ? ” 
returned  she  : “ I think  it  is  very  well.  Suppose 
the  girls  should  come  to  make  acquaintances  of 
taste  in  town  ! This  I am  assured  of,  that  Lon- 
don is  the  only  place  in  the  world  for  all  manner 
of  husbands.  Besides,  my  dear,  stranger  things 
happen  every  day : and  as  ladies  of  quality  are  so 
taken  with  my  daughters,  what  will  not  men  of 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


67 


quality  be  ! Entre  nous,  I protest  I like  my  Lady 
Blarney  vastly,  so  very  obliging.  However,  Miss 
Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  has  my 
warm  heart.  But  yet,  when  they  came  to  talk  of 
places  in  town,  you  saw  at  once  how  I nailed 
them.  Tell  me,  my  dear,  don’t  you  think  I did 
for  my  children  there  ? ” — “ Ay,”  returned  I,  not 
knowing  well  what  to  think  of  the  matter,  “ heaven 
grant  they  may  be  both  the  better  for  it  this  day 
three  months  ! ” This  was  one  of  those  observa- 
tions I usually  made  to  impress  my  wife  with  an 
opinion  of  my  sagacity  ; for  if  the  girls  succeeded, 
then  it  was  a pious  wish  fulfilled ; but  if  anything 
unfortunate  ensued,  then  it  might  be  looked  upon 
as  a prophecy.  All  this  conversation,  however, 
was  only  preparatory  to  another  scheme,  and  in- 
deed I dreaded  as  much.  This  was  nothing  less 
than,  that  as  we  were  now  to  hold  up  our  heads  a 
little  higher  in  the  world,  it  would  be  proper  to 
sell  the  colt,  which  was  grown  old,  at  a neighbor- 
ing fair,  and  buy  us  a horse  that  would  carry  sin- 
gle or  double  upon  an  occasion,  and  make  a pretty 
appearance  at  church  or  upon  a visit.  This  at 
first  I oj^posed  stoutly;  but  it  was  as  stoutly  de- 
fended. However,  as  I weakened,  my  antagonists 
gained  strength,  till  at  last  it  was  resolved  to  part 
with  him. 

As  the  fair  happened  on  the  following  day,  I had 
intentions  of  going  myself;  but  my  wife  persuaded 
me  that  I had  got  a cold,  and  nothing  could  pre- 
vail upon  her  to  permit  me  from  home.  “ No,  my 
dear,”  said  she,  “ our  son  Moses  is  a discreet  boy, 
and  can  buy  and  sell  to  very  good  advantage  ; you 
know  all  our  great  bargains  are  of  his  purchasing. 


68 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


He  always  stands  out  and  higgles,  and  actually 
tires  them  till  he  gets  a bargain.” 

As  I had  some  opinion  of  my  son’s  prudence,  I 
was  willing  enough  to  intrust  him  with  this  com- 
mission ; and  the  next  morning  I perceived  his 
sisters  mighty  busy  in  fitting  out  Moses  for  the 
fair  ; trimming  his  hair,  brushing  his  buckles,  and 
cocking  his  hat  with  pins.  The  business  of  the  toi- 
let being  over,  we  had  at  last  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  him  mounted  upon  the  colt,  with  a deal  box 
before  him  to  bring  home  groceries  in.  He  had  on 
a coat  made  of  that  cloth  they  call  thunder  and 
lightning,  which,  though  grown  too  short,  was 
much  too  good  to  be  thrown  away.  His  waist- 
coat was  of  gosling  green,  and  his  sisters  had  tied 
his  hair  with  a broad  black  ribbon.  We  all  fol- 
lowed him  several  paces  from  the  door,  bawling  af- 
ter him,  “Good  luck!  good  luck!”  till  we  could 
see  him  no  longer. 

He  was  scarce  gone,  when  Mr.  Thornhill’s  but- 
ler came  to  congratulate  us  upon  our  good  fortune, 
saying,  that  he  overheard  his  young  master  men- 
tion our  names  with  great  commendation. 

Good  fortune  seemed  resolved  not  to  come  alone. 
Another  footman  from  the  same  family  followed, 
with  a card  for  my  daughters,  importing,  that  the 
two  ladies  had  received  such  pleasing  accounts 
from  Mr.  Thornhill  of  us  all,  that,  after  a few  pre- 
vious inquiries,  they  hoped  to  be  perfectly  satisfied. 
“ Ay,”  cried  my  wife,  “ I now  see  it  is  no  easy 
matter  to  get  into  the  families  of  the  great : but 
when  one  once  gets  in,  then,  as  Moses  says,  one 
may  go  sleep.”  To  this  piece  of  humor,  for  she 
intended  it  for  wit,  my  daughters  assented  with  a 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  69 

loud  laugh  of  pleasure.  In  short,  such  was  her 
satisfaction  at  this  message,  that  she  actually  put 
her  hand  in  her  pocket,  and  gave  the  messenger 
sevenpence  halfpenny. 

This  was  to  be  our  visiting  day.  The  next  that 
came  was  Mr.  Burchell,  who  had  been  at  the  fair. 
He  brought  my  little  ones  a pennyworth  of  ginger- 
bread each,  which  my  wife  undertook  to  keep  for 
them,  and  give  them  by  letters  at  a time.  He 
brought  my  daughters  also  a couple  of  boxes,  in 
which  they  might  keep  wafers,  snuff,  patches,  or 
even  money,  when  they  got  it.  My  wife  was  usu- 
ally fond  of  a weasel-skin  purse,  as  being  the  most 
lucky  ; but  this  by  the  by.  We  had  still  a regard 
for  Mr.  Burchell,  though  his  late  rude  behavior 
was  in  some  measure  displeasing;  nor  could  we 
now  avoid  communicating  our  happiness  to  him, 
and  asking  his  advice.  Although  we  seldom  fol- 
lowed advice,  we  were  all  ready  enough  to  ask  it. 
When  he  read  the  note  from  the  two  ladies,-  he 
shook  his  head,  and  observed  that  an  affair  of  this 
sort  demanded  the  utmost  circumspection.  This 
air  of  diffidence  highly  displeased  my  wife.  “ I 
never  doubted,  Sir,”  cried  she,  “ your  readiness  to 
be  against  my  daughters  and  me.  You  have  more 
circumspection  than  is  wanted.  However,  I fancy 
when  we  come  to  ask  advice,  we  will  apply  to  per- 
sons who  seem  to  have  made  use  of  it  themselves.” 
— “ Whatever  my  own  conduct  may  have  been, 
Madam,”  replied  he,  “ is  not  the  present  question  ; 
though,  as  I have  made  no  use  of  advice  myself,  I 
should  in  conscience  give  it  to  those  that  will.” 
As  I was  apprehensive  this  answer  might  draw  on 
a repartee,  making  up  by  abuse  what  it  wanted  in 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  . 


70 

wit,  I changed  the  subject,  by  seeming  to  wonder 
what  could  keep  our  son  so  long  at  the  fair,  as  it 
was  now  almost  nightfall.  “ Never  mind  our 
son,”  cried  my  wife,  “ depend  upon  it  he  knows 
Avhat  he  is  about.  V 11  warrant  we’  11  never  see 
him  sell  his  hen  of  a rainy  day.  I have  seen  him 
buy  such  bargains  as  would  amaze  one.  I’  11  tell 
you  a good  story  about  that,  that  will  make  you 
split  your  sides  with  laughing.  — But  as  I live, 
yonder  comes  Moses,  without  an  horse,  and  the 
box  at  his  back.” 

As  she  spoke,  Moses  came  slowly  on  foot,  and 
sweating  under  the  deal  box,  which  he  had  strapped 
round  his  shoulders  like  a pedlar.  “ Welcome, 
welcome,  Moses  ; well,  my  boy,  what  have  you 
brought  us  from  the  fair?”  — “I  have  brought 
you  myself,”  cried  Moses,  with  a sly  look,  and 
resting  the  box  on  the  dresser.  — “ Ah,  Moses,” 
cried  my  wife,  “ that  we  know,  but  where  is  the 
horse  ? ” — “ I have  sold  him,”  cried  Moses,  “ for 
three  pounds  five  shillings  and  twopence.”  — 
“ Well  done,  my  good  boy,”  returned  she,  “ I 
knew  you  would  touch  them  off.  Between  our- 
selves, three  pounds  five  shillings  and  twopence 
is  no  bad  day’s  work.  Come,  let  us  have  it  then.” 
— “I  have  brought  back  no  money,”  cried  Moses 
again.  “ I have  laid  it  all  out  in  a bargain,  and 
here  it  is,”  pulling  out  a bundle  from  his  breast : 
“ here  they  are  : a gross  of  green  spectacles,  with 
silver  rims  and  shagreen  cases.” — “A  gross  of 
green  spectacles  ! ” repeated  my  wife,  in  a faint 
voice.  “ And  you  have  parted  with  the  colt,  and 
brought  us  back  nothing  but  a gross  of  green  pal- 
try spectacles  ! ” — “ Dear  mother,”  cried  the  boy, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


71 

“ why  won’t  you  listen  to  reason  ? I had  them  a 
dead  bargain,  or  I should  not  have  bought  them. 
The  silver  rims  alone  will  sell  for  double  the 
money.”  — “ A fig  for  the  silver  rims,”  cried  my 
wife,  in  a passion  ; “ I dare  swear  they  won’t  sell 
for  above  half  the  money  at  the  rate  of  broken  sil- 
ver, five  shillings  an  ounce.”  — “ You  need  be  un- 
der no  uneasiness,”  cried  I,  “ about  selling  the 
rims ; for  they  are  not  worth  sixpence,  for  I per- 
ceive they  are  only  copper,  varnished  over.”  — 
“ What,”  cried  my  wife,  “ not  silver  ! the  rims  not 
silver  ! ” — “ No,”  cried  I,  “ no  more  silver  than 
your  saucepan.”  — “ And  so,”  returned  she,  “ we 
have  parted  with  the  colt,  and  have  only  got  a 
gross  of  green  spectacles,  with  copper  rims  and 
shagreen  cases!  A murrain  take  such  trumpery. 
The  blockhead  has  been  imposed  upon,  and  should 
have  known  his  company  better.”  — “ There,  my 
dear,”  cried  I,  “you  are  wrong,  he  should  not 
have  known  them  at  all.”  — “Marry,  hang  the 
idiot,”  returned  she,  “ to  bring  me  such  stuff,  if  I 
had  them  I would  throw  them  in  the  fire.” 
“ There  again  you  are  wrong,  my  dear,”  cried  I ; 
“ for  though  they  be  copper,  we  will  keep  them  by 
us  ; as  copper  spectacles,  you  know,  are  better  than 
nothing.” 

By  this  time  the  unfortunate  Moses  was  unde- 
ceived. He  now  saw  that  he  had  indeed  been  im- 
posed upon  by  a prowling  sharper,  who,  observing 
his  figure,  had  marked  him  for  an  easy  prey.  I 
therefore  asked  the  circumstances  of  his  deception. 
He  sold  the  horse,  it  seems,  and  walked  the  fair 
in  search  of  another.  A reverend  looking  man 
brought  him  to  a tent,  under  pretence  of  having 


72 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


one  to  sell.  “ Here,”  continued  Moses,  “ we  met 
another  man,  very  well  dressed,  who  desired  to 
borrow  twenty  pounds  upon  these,  saying,  that  he 
wanted  money,  and  would  dispose  of  them  for  a 
third  of  the  value.  The  first  gentleman,  who 
pretended  to  be  my  friend,  whispered  me  to  buy 
them,  and  cautioned  me  not  to  let  so  good  an  offer 
pass.  I sent  for  Mr.  Flamborough,  and  they 
talked  him  up  as  finely  as  they  did  me,  and  so  at 
last  we  were  persuaded  to  buy  the  two  gross  be- 
tween us.” 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Mr.  Burciiell  is  found  to  be  an  Enemy;  for 

HE  HAS  THE  CONFIDENCE  TO  CIVE  DISAGREE- 
ABLE Advice. 

UR  family  had  now  made  several  at- 
tempts to  be  fine ; but  some  unforeseen 
disaster  demolished  each  as  soon  as 
projected.  I endeavored  to  take  the 
advantage  of  every  disappointment,  to  improve 
their  good  sense  in  proportion  as  they  were  frus- 
trated in  ambition.  “ You  see,  my  children/’ 
cried  I,  “ how  little  is  to  be  got  by  attempts  to 
impose  upon  the  world,  in  coping  with  our  betters. 
Such  as  are  poor  and  will  associate  with  none  but 
the  rich,  are  hated  by  those  they  avoid,  and  de- 
spised by  those  they  follow.  Unequal  combina- 
tions are  always  disadvantageous  to  the  weaker 
side ; the  rich  having  the  pleasure,  and  the  poor 
the  inconveniences  .that  result  from  them.  But 
come,  Dick,  my  boy,  and  repeat  the  fable  that  you 
were  reading  to-day,  for  the  good  of  the  com- 
pany.” 

“ Once  .upon  a time,”  cried  the  child,  “ a Giant 
and  a Dwarf  were  friends,  and  kept  together. 
They  made  a bargain  that  they  would  never  for- 
sake each  other,  but  go  seek  adventures.  The 


74 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


first  battle  they  fought  was  with  two  Saracens ; 
and  the  Dwarf,  who  was  very  courageous,  dealt 
one  of  the  champions  a most  angry  blow.  It  did 
the  Saracen  very  little  injury,  who,  lifting  up  his 
sword,  fairly  struck  off  the  poor  Dwarfs  arm. 
He  was  now  in  a woful  plight ; but  the  Giant 
coming  to  his  assistance,  in  a short  time  left  the 
two  Saracens  dead  on  the  plain  ; and  the  Dwarf 
cut  off  the  dead  man’s  head  out  of  spite.  They 
then  travelled  on  to  another  adventure.  This  was 
against  three  bloody-minded  Satyrs,  who  were 
carrying  away  a damsel  in  distress.  The  Dwarf 
was  not  quite  so  fierce  now  as  before ; but  for  all 
that  struck  the  first  blow,  which  was  returned 
by  another,  that  knocked  out  his  eye ; but  the 
Giant  was  soon  up  with  them,  and  had  they  not 
fled,  would  certainly  have  killed  them  every  one. 
They  were  all  very  joyful  for  this  victory,  and  the 
damsel  who  was  relieved  fell  in  love  with  the 
Giant,  and  married  him.  They  now  travelled  far, 
and  farther  than  I can  tell,  till  they  met  with  a 
company  of  robbers.  The  Giant,  for  the  first 
time,  was  foremost  now  ; but  the  Dwarf  was  not 
far  behind.  The  battle  was  stout  and  long. 
Wherever  the  Giant  came  all  fell  before  him  ; but 
the  Dwarf  had  liked  to  have  been  killed  more  than 
once.  At  last  the  victory  declared  for  the  two  ad- 
venturers ; but  the  Dwarf  lost  his  leg.  The  Dwarf 
was  now  without  an  arm,  a leg,  and  an  eye,  while 
the  Giant  was  without  a single  wound.  Upon 
which  he  cried  out  to  his  little  companion,  My 
little  hero,  this  is  glorious  sport ; let  us  get  one 
victory  more,  and  then  we  shall  have  honor  for 
ever.  No,  cries  the  Dwarf,  who  was  by  this  time 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


75 

grown  wiser,  no,  I declare  off ; I ’ll  fight  no  more ; 
for  I find  in  every  battle  that  you  get  all  the 
honor  and  rewards,  but  all  the  blows  fall  upon 
me.” 

I was  going  to  moralize  this  fable,  when  our 
attention  was  called  off  to  a warm  dispute  between 
my  wife  and  Mr.  Burchell,  upon  my  daughters’ 
intended  expedition  to  town.  My  wife  very  stren- 
uously insisted  upon  the  advantages  that  would 
result  from  it.  Mr.  Burchell,  on  the  contrary, 
dissuaded  her  with  great  ardor,  and  I stood  neuter. 
His  present  dissuasions  seemed  but  the  second  part 
of  those  which  were  received  with  so  ill  a grace  in 
the  morning.  The  dispute  grew  high,  while  poor 
Deborah,  instead  of  reasoning  stronger,  talked 
louder,  and  at  last  was  obliged  to  take  shelter 
from  a defeat  in  clamor.  The  conclusion  of  her 
harangue,  however,  was  highly  displeasing  to  us 
all : she  knew,  she  said,  of  some  who  had  their 
own  secret  reasons  for  what  they  advised  ; but,,  for 
her  part,  she  wished  such  to  stay  away  from  her 
house  for  the  future.  — “ Madam,”  cried  Mr.  Bur- 
chell with  looks  of  great  composure,  which  tended 
to  inflame  her  the  more,  “ as  for  secret  reasons,  you 
are  right : I have  secret  reasons,  which  I forbear 
to  mention,  because  you  are  not  able  to  answer 
those  of  which  I make  no  secret : but  I find  my 
visits  here  are  become  troublesome;  I’ll  take  my 
leave  therefore  now,  and  perhaps  come  once  more 
to  take  a final  farewell  when  I am  quitting  the 
country.”  Thus  saying,  he  took  up  his  hat,  nor 
could  the  attempts  of  Sophia,  whose  looks  seemed 
to  upbraid  his  precipitancy,  prevent  his  going. 

When  gone,  we  all  regarded  each  other  for  some 


7 6 THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  _ 

minutes  with  confusion.  My  wife,  who  knew  her- 
self to  be  the  cause,  strove  to  hide  her  concern 
with  a forced  smile,  and  an  air  of  assurance,  which 
I was  willing  to  reprove  : “ How,  woman,”  cried 
I to  her,  “ is  it  thus  we  treat  strangers  ? Is  it 
thus  we  return  their  kindness  ? Be  assured,  my 
dear,  that  these  were  the  harshest  words,  and  to 
me  the  most  unpleasing  that  have  escaped  your 
lips  ! ” — “ Why  would  he  provoke  me  then  ? ” 
replied  she ; “ but  I know  the  motives  of  his  ad- 
vice perfectly  well.  He  would  prevent  my  girls 
from  going  to  town,  that  he  may  have  the  pleasure 
of  my  youngest  daughter’s  company  here  at  home. 
But,  whatever  happens,  she  shall  choose  better 
company  than  such  low-lived  fellows  as  he.”  — 
“ Low-lived,  my  dear,  do  you  call  him  ? ” cried  I ; 
“ it  is  very  possible  we  may  mistake  this  man’s 
character,  for  he  seems  upon  some  occasions  the 
most  finished  gentleman  I ever  knew.  — Tell  me, 
Sophia,  my  girl,  has  he  ever  given  you  any  secret 
instances  of  his  attachment  ? ” — “ His  conversa- 
tion with  me,  sir,”  replied  my  daughter,  “ has 
ever  been  sensible,  modest,  and  pleasing.  As  to 
aught  else,  no,  never.  Once  indeed,  I remember 
to  have  heard  him  say,  he  never  knew  a woman 
who  could  find  merit  in  a man  that  seemed  poor.” 
— “Such,  my  dear,”  cried  I,  “is  the  common 
cant  of  all  the  unfortunate  or  idle.  But  I hope 
you  have  been  taught  to  judge  properly  of  such 
men,  and  that  it  would  be  even  madness  to  expect 
happiness  from  one  who  has  been  so  very  bad  an 
economist  of  his  own.  Your  mother  and  I have 
now  better  prospects  for  you.  The  next  winter, 
which  you  will  probably  spend  in  town,  will 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


77 


give  you  opportunities  of  making  a more  prudent 
choice.” 

What  Sophia’s  reflections  were  upon  this  occa- 
sion I can’t  pretend  to  determine ; but  I was  not 
displeased,  at  the  bottom,  that  we  were  rid  of  a 
guest  from  whom  I had  much  to  fear.  Our 
breach  of  hospitality  went  to  my  conscience  a 
little  ; but  I quickly  silenced  that  monitor  by  two 
or  three  specious  reasons,  which  served  to  satisfy 
and  reconcile  me  to  myself.  The  pain  which  con- 
science gives  the  man  who  has  already  done 
wrong,  is  soon  got  over.  Conscience  is  a cow- 
ard, and  those  faults  it  has  not  strength  enough 
to  prevent,  it  seldom  has  justice  enough  to  accuse. 


CHAPTER  XI  Y. 

Fresh  Mortifications,  or  a Demonstration 

THAT  SEEMING  CALAMITIES  MAY  BE  REAL 

Blessings. 

HE  journey  of  my  daughters  to  town 
was  now  resolved  upon,  Mr.  Thornhill 
having  kindly  promised  to  inspect  their 
conduct  himself,  and  inform  us  by  let- 
ter of  their  behavior.  But  it  was  thought  indis- 
pensably necessary  that  their  appearance  should 
equal  the  greatness  of  their  expectations,  which 
could  not  be  done  without  expense.  We  debated 
therefore  in  full  council  what  were  the  easiest 
methods  of  raising  money,  or,  more  properly 
speaking,  what  we  could  most  conveniently  sell. 
The  deliberation  was  soon  finished,  it  was  found 
that  our  remaining  horse  was  utterly  useless  for 
the  plough,  without  his  companion,  and  equally 
unfit  for  the  road,  as  wanting  an  eye ; it  was 
therefore  determined  that  we  should  dispose  of 
him  for  the  purposes  above-mentioned,  at  the 
neighboring  fair ; and,  to  prevent  imposition,  that 
I should  go  with  him  myself.  Though  this  was 
one  of  the  first  mercantile  transactions  of  my 
life,  yet  I had  no  doubt  about  acquitting  myself 
with  reputation.  The  opinion  a man  forms  of  his 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


79 


own  prudence  is  measured  by  that  of  the  company 
he  keeps  ; Jand  as  mine  was  mostly  in  the  family 
way,  I had  conceived  no  unfavorable  sentiments 
of  my  worldly  wisdom.  My  wife,  however,  next 
morning,  at  parting,  after  I had  got  some  paces 
from  the  door,  called  me  back  to  advise  me,  in  a 
whisper,  to  have  all  my  eyes  about  me. 

I had,  in  the  usual  forms,  when  I came  to  the 
fair,  put  my  horse  through  all  his  paces,  but  for 
some  time  had  no  bidders.  At  last  a chapman 
approached,  and  after  he  had  for  a good  while 
examined  the  horse  round,  finding  him  blind  of 
one  eye,  he  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him  : a 
second  came  up,  but  observing  he  had  a spavin, 
declared  he  would  not  take  him  for  the  driving 
home  : a third  perceived  he  had  a wind-gall,  and 
would  bid  no  money  : a fourth  knew  by  his  ey? 
that  he  had  the  botts  : a fifth  wondered  what  a 
plague  I could  do  at  the  fair  with  a blind,  spav- 
ined, galled  hack,  that  was  only  fit  to  be  cut  up 
for  a dog-kennel.  By  this  time  I began  to  have  a 
most  hearty  contempt  for  the  poor  animal  myself, 
and  was  almost  ashamed  at  the  approach  of  every 
customer  ; for  though  I did  not  entirely  believe  all 
the  fellows  told  me,  yet  I reflected  that  the  num- 
ber of  witnesses  was  a strong  presumption  they 
were  right,  and  St.  Gregory,  upon  good  works, 
professes  himself  to  be  of  the  same  opinion. 

I was  in  this  mortifying  situation,  when  a 
brother  clergyman,  an  old  acquaintance,  who  had 
also  business  at  the  fair,  came  up,  and  shaking 
me  by  the  hand,  proposed  adjourning  to  a public- 
house,  and  taking  a glass  of  whatever  we  could 
get.  I readily  closed  with  the  offer,  and  entering 


8o 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  - 


an  alehouse,  we  were  shown  into  a little  back- 
room, where  there  was  only  a venerable  old  man, 
who  sat  wholly  intent  over  a large  book,  which  he 
was  reading.  I never  in  my  life  saw  a figure 
that  prepossessed  me  more  favorably.  His  locks 
of  silver  gray  venerably  shaded  his  temples,  and 
his  green  old  age  seemed  to  be  the  result  of  health 
and  benevolence.  However,  his  presence  did  not 
interrupt  our  conversation.  My  friend  and  I dis- 
coursed on  the  various  turns  of  fortune  we  had 
met,  the  Whistonian  controversy,  my  last  pam- 
phlet, the  archdeacon’s  reply,  and  the  hard  meas- 
ure that  was  dealt  me.  But  our  attention  was  in 
a short  time  taken  off  by  the  appearance  of  a 
youth,  who,  entering  the  room,  respectfully  said 
something  softly  to  the  old  stranger.  “ Make  no 
apologies,  my  child,”  said  the  old  man,  “to  do 
good  is  a duty  we  owe  to  all  our  fellow-creatures : 
take  this,  I wish  it  were  more  ; but  five  pounds 
will  relieve  your  distress,  and  you  are  welcome.” 
The  modest  youth  shed  tears  of  gratitude,  and  yet 
his  gratitude  was  scarce  equal  to  mine.  I could 
have  hugged  the  good  old  man  in  my  arms,  his 
benevolence  pleased  me  so.  He  continued  to  read, 
and  we  resumed  our  conversation,  until  my  com- 
panion, after  some  time,  recollecting  that  he  had 
business  to  transact  in  the  fair,  promised  to  be 
soon  back,  adding,  that  he  always  desired  to  have 
as  much  of  Dr.  Primrose’s  company  as  possible. 
The  old  gentleman,  hearing  my  name  mentioned, 
seemed  to  look  at  me  with  attention  for  some 
time,  and  when  my  friend  was  gone,  most  respect- 
fully demanded  if  I was  in  any  way  related  to  the 
great  Primrose,  that  courageous  monogamist,  who 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


8 1 


had  been  the  bulwark  of  the  church.  Never  did 
my  heart  feel  sincerer  rapture  than  at  that  mo- 
ment. “ Sir/’  cried  I,  the  applause  of  so  good  a 
man,  as  I atn  sure  you  are,  adds  to  that  happiness 
in  my  breast  which  your  benevolence  has  already 
excited.  You  behold  before  you,  Sir,  that  Dr. 
Primrose,  the  monogamist,  whom  you  have  been 
pleased  to  call  great.  You  here  see  that  unfortu- 
nate divine,  who  has  so  long,  and  it  would  ill  be- 
come me  to  say,  successfully,  fought  against  the 
deuterogamy  of  the  age.”  — “ Sir,”  cried  the  stran- 
ger, struck  with  awe,  “ I fear  I have  been  too 
familiar,  but  you  ’ll  forgive  my  curiosity,  Sir  : I 
beg  pardon.”  — “ Sir,”  cried  I,  grasping  his  hand, 
“ you  are  so  far  from  displeasing  me  by  your  fa- 
miliarity that  I must  beg  you  ’ll  accept  my  friend- 
ship, as  you  already  have  my  esteem.”  — “ Then 
with  gratitude  I accept  the  offer,”  cried  he,  squeez- 
ing me  by  the  hand,  “ thou  glorious  pillar  of  un- 
shaken orthodoxy.”  And  do  I behold  — ” I here 
interrupted  what  he  was  going  to  say ; for  though, 
as  an  author,  I could  digest  no  small  share  of  flat- 
tery, yet  now  my  modesty  would  permit  no  more. 
However,  no  lovers  in  romance  ever  cemented  a 
more  instantaneous  friendship.  We  talked  upon 
several  subjects.  At  first  I thought  he  seemed 
rather  devout  than  learned,  and  began  to  think  he 
despised  all  human  doctrines  as  dross.  Yet  this 
no  way  lessened  him  in  my  esteem,  for  I had  for 
some  time  begun  privately  to  harbor  such  an  opin- 
ion myself.  I therefore  took  occasion  to  observe, 
that  the  world  in  general  began  to  be  blameably 
indifferent  as  to  doctrinal  matters,  and  followed 
human  speculations  too  much.  — “Av,  Sir,”  re- 
6 


82 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD: 


plied  he,  as  if  he  had  reserved  all  his  learning  to 
that  moment,  “ Ay,  Sir,  the  world  is  in  its  dotage, 
and  yet  the  cosmogony  or  creation  of  the  world  has 
puzzled  philosophers  of  all  ages.  What  a medley 
of  opinions  have  they  not  broached  upon  the  crea- 
tion of  the  world  1 Sanchoniathon,  Manetho,  Be- 
rosus,  and  Ocellus  Lucanus  have  all  attempted  it 
in  vain.  The  latter  has  these  words,  Anarchon  ara 
hai  atelutaion  to  pan,  which  imply  that  things  have 
neither  beginning  nor  end.  Manetho  also,  who 
lived  after  the  time  of  Nebuchadon-Asser,  Asser 
being  a Syriac  word  usually  applied  as  a surname 
to  the  kings  of  that  country,  as  Teglat  Phael- 
Asser,  Nabon-Asser,  he,  I say,  formed  a conjecture 
equally  absurd  ; for,  as  we  usually  say,  eh  to  biblion 
hubernetes,  which  implies  that  books  will  never  teach 
the  world  ; so  he  attempted  to  investigate  — But, 
Sir,  I ask  pardon,  I am  straying  from  the  ques- 
tion.” That  he  actually  was,  nor  could  I for  my 
life  see  how  the  creation  of  the  world  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  business  I was  talking  of;  but  it 
was  sufficient  to  show  me  that  he  was  a man  of 
letters,  and  I now  reverenced  him  the  more.  I was 
resolved,  therefore,  to  bring  him  to  the  touchstone  ; 
but  he  was  too  mild  and  too  gentle  to  contend  for 
victory.  Whenever  I made  any  observation  that 
looked  like  a challenge  to  controversy,  he  would 
smile,  shake  his  head,  and  say  nothing,  by  which 
I understood  he  could  say  much,  if  he  thought 
proper.  The  subject  therefore  insensibly  changed 
from  the  business  of  antiquity  to  that  which  brought 
us  both  to  the  fair  ; mine  I told  him  was  to  sell  an 
horse,  and,  very  luckily  indeed,  his  was  to  buy  one 
for  one  of  his  tenants.  My  horse  was  soon  pro- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  83 

duccd,  and,  in  fine,  we  struck  a bargain.  Nothing 
now  remained  but  to  pay  me,  and  he  accordingly 
pulled  out  a thirty  pound  note,  and  bid  me  change  it. 
Not  being  in  a capacity  of  complying  with  his 
demand,  he  ordered  his  footman  to  be  called  up, 
who  made  his  appearance  in  a very  genteel  livery. 
“ Here,  Abraham/’  cried  he,  “ go  and  get  gold  for 
this;  you’ll  do  it  at  neighbor  Jackson’s,  or  any- 
where.” While  the  fellow  was  gone,  he  enter- 
tained me  with  a pathetic  harangue  on  the  great 
scarcity  of  silver,  which  I undertook  to  improve, 
by  deploring  also  the  great  scarcity  of  gold ; so 
that  by  the  time  Abraham  returned,  we  had  both 
agreed  that  money  was  never  so  hard  to  be  come 
at  as  now.  Abraham  returned  to  inform  us  that 
he  had  been  over  the  whole  fair,  and  could  not 
get  change,  though  he  had  offered  half  a crown  for 
doing  it.  This  was  a very  great  disappointment 
to  us  all ; but  the  old  gentleman  having  paused  a 
little,  asked  me  if  I knew  one  Solomon  Flam- 
borough,  in  my  part  of  the  country.  Upon  reply- 
ing that  he  was  my  next  door  neighbor,  — “ If  that 
be  the  case,  then,”  replied  he,  “ I believe  we  shall 
deal.  You  shall  have  a draft  upon  him,  pay- 
able at  sight,  and  let  me  tell  you  he  is  as  warm  a 
man  as  any  within  five  miles  round  him.  Honest 
Solomon  and  I have  been  acquainted  for  many 
years  together.  I remember  I always  beat  him  at 
three  jumps;  but  he  could  hop  upon  one  leg  far- 
ther than  I.”  A draft  upon  my  neighbor  was 
to  me  the  same  as  money,  for  I was  sufficiently 
convinced  of  his  ability.  The  draft  was  signed 
and  put  into  my  hands,  and  Mr.  Jenkinson,  the 
old  gentleman,  his  man  Abraham,  and  my  horse, 


84  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

old  Blackberry,  trotted  off  very  well  pleased  with 
each  other. 

After  a short  interval,  being  left  to  reflection,  I 
began  to  recollect  that  I had  done  wrong  in  tak- 
ing a draft  from  a stranger,  and  so  prudently  re- 
solved upon  following  the  purchaser,  and  having 
back  my  horse.  But  this  was  now  too  late ; I 
therefore  made  directly  homewards,  resolving  to 
get  the  draft  changed  into  money  at  my  friend’s 
as  fast  as  possible.  I found  my  honest  neighbor 
smoking  his  pipe  at  his  own  door,  and  informing 
him  that  I had  a small  bill  upon  him,  he  read  it 
twice  over.  “ You  can  read  the  name,  I sup- 
pose,” cried  I,  “ Ephraim  Jenkinson.”  — “ Yes,” 
returned  he,  “ the  name  is  written  plain  enough, 
and  I know  the  gentleman  too,  the  greatest  rascal 
under  the  canopy  of  heaven.  This  is  the  very 
same  rogue  who  sold  us  the  spectacles.  Was  he 
not  a venerable  looking  man,  with  gray  hair,  and 
no  flaps  to  his  pocket-holes  ? And  did  he  not 
talk  a long  string  of  learning  about  Greek,  and 
cosmogony,  and  the  world  ? ” To  this  I replied 
with  a groan.  “ Ay,”  continued  he,  “ he  has  but 
that  one  piece  of  learning  in  the  world,  and  he 
always  talks  it  away  whenever  he  finds  a scholar 
in  company  ; but  I know  the  rogue,  and  will  catch 
him  yet.” 

Though  I was  already  sufficiently  mortified,  my 
greatest  struggle  was  to  come  in  facing  my  wife 
and  daughters.  No  truant  was  ever  more  afraid 
of  returning  to  school,  there  to  behold  the  master’s 
visage,  than  I was  of  going  home.  I was  deter- 
mined, however,  to  anticipate  their  fury,  by  first 
falling  into  a passion  myself. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  85 

But,  alas  ! upon  entering,  I found  the  family  no 
way  disposed  for  battle.  My  wife  and  girls  were 
all  in  tears,  Mr.  Thornhill  having  been  there  that 
day  to  inform  them,  that  their  journey  to  town 
was  entirely  over.  The  two  ladies  having  heard 
reports  of  us  from  some  malieious  person  about 
us,  were  that  day  set  out  for  London.  He  eould 
neither  discover  the  tendency  nor  the  author  of 
these ; but  whatever  they  might  be,  or  whoever 
might  have  broached  them,  he  continued  to  assure 
our  family  of  his  friendship  and  protection.  I 
found,  therefore,  that  they  bore  my  disappoint- 
ment with  great  resignation,  as  it  was  eclipsed  in 
the  greatness  of  their  own.  But  what  perplexed 
us  most  was  to  think  who  could  be  so  base  as  to 
asperse  the  character  of  a family  so  harmless  as 
ours,  too  humble  to  excite  envy,  and  too  inoffen- 
sive to  create  disgust. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

All  Mr.  Burchell’s  Villany  at  once  detect- 
ed.— The  Folly  of  being  Over-wise. 

HAT  evening  and  a part  of  the  follow- 
ing day  were  employed  in  fruitless 
attempts  to  discover  our  enemies  : 
scarcely  a family  in  the  neighborhood 
but  incurred  our  suspicions,  and  each  of  us  ha(J 
reasons  for  our  opinion  best  known  to  ourselves. 
As  we  were  in  this  perplexity,  one  of  our  little 
boys,  who  had  been  playing  abroad,  brought  in  a 
letter-case,  which  he  found  on  the  green.  It  was 
quickly  known  to  belong  to  Mr.  Burchell,  with 
whom  it  had  been  seen,  and,  upon  examination, 
contained  some  hints  upon  different  subjects  ; but 
what  particularly  engaged  our  attention  was  a 
sealed  note,  superscribed,  The  copy  of  a letter  to  he 
sent  to  the  ladies  at  Thornhill  Castle.  It  instantly 
occurred  that  he  was  the  base  informer,  and  we 
deliberated  whether  the  note  should  not  be  broke 
open.  I was  against  it ; but  Sophia,  who  said 
she  was  sure  that  of  all  men  he  would  be  the  last 
to  be  guilty  of  so  much  baseness,  insisted  upon  its 
being  read.  In  this  she  was  seconded  by  the  rest 
of  the  family,  and,  at  their  joint  solicitation,  I read 
as  follows  : — 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  87 
“ Ladies,  — 

“ The  bearer  will  sufficiently  satisfy  you  as  to 
the  person  from  whom  this  comes  : one  at  least 
the  friend  of  innocence,  and  ready  to  prevent  its 
being  seduced.  I am  informed  for  a truth,  that 
you  have  some  intention  of  bringing  two  young 
ladies  to  town,  whom  I have  some  knowledge  of 
under  the  character  of  companions.  As  I would 
neither  have  simplicity  imposed  upon,  nor  virtue 
contaminated,  I must  offer  it  as  my  opinion,  that 
the  impropriety  of  such  a step  will  be  attended 
with  dangerous  consequences.  It  has  never  been 
my  way  to  treat  the  infamous  or  the  lewd  with 
severity ; nor  should  I now  have  taken  this  method 
of  explaining  myself,  or  reproving  folly,  did  it  not 
aim  at  guilt.  Take,  therefore,  the  admonition  of 
a friend,  and  seriously  reflect  on  the  consequences 
of  introducing  infamy  and  vice  into  retreats  where 
peace  and  innocence  have  hitherto  resided.” 

Our  doubts  were  now  at  an  end.  There  seemed, 
indeed,  something  applicable  to  both  sides  in  this 
letter,  and  its  censures  might  as  well  be  referred  to 
those  to  whom  it  was  written,  as  to  us ; but  the 
malicious  meaning  was  obvious,  and  we  went 
no  farther.  My  wife  had  scarce  patience  to 
hear  me  to  the  end,  but  railed  at  the  writer  with 
unrestrained  resentment.  Olivia  was  equally  se- 
vere, and  Sophia  seemed  perfectly  amazed  at  his 
baseness.  As  for  my  part,  it  appeared  to  me  one 
of  the  vilest  instances  of  unprovoked  ingratitude  I 
had  met  with.  Nor  could  I account  for  it  in  any 
other  manner  than  by  imputing  it  to  his  desire  of 
detaining  my  youngest  daughter  in  the  country, 


88 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


to  have  the  more  frequent  opportunities  of  an  in- 
terview. In  this  manner  we  all  sat  ruminating 
upon  schemes  of  vengeance,  when  our  other  little 
boy  came  running  in  to  tell  us  that  Mr.  Burchell 
was  approaching  at  the  other  end  of  the  field. 
It  is  easier  to  conceive  than  describe  the  compli- 
cated sensations  which  are  felt  from  the  pain  of  a 
recent  injury,  and  the  pleasure  of  approaching 
vengeance.  Though  our  intentions  were  only  to 
upbraid  him  with  his  ingratitude,  yet  it  was  re- 
solved to  do  it  in  a manner  that  would  be  perfectly 
cutting.  Tor  this  purpose  we  agreed  to  meet  him 
with  our  usual  smiles,  to  chat  in  the  beginning 
with  more  than  ordinary  kindness,  to  amuse  him 
a little  ; and  then,  in  the  midst  of  the  flattering 
calm,  to  burst  upon  him  like  an  earthquake,  and 
overwhelm  him  with  the  sense  of  his  own  base- 
ness. This  being  resolved  upon,  my  wife  under- 
took to  manage  the  business  herself,  as  she  really 
had  some  talents  for  such  an  undertaking.  We 
saw  him  approach ; he  entered,  drew  a chair,  and 
sat  down.  — “A  fine  day,  Mr.  Burchell.”  — “A 
very  fine  day,  Doctor;  though  I fancy  we  shall 
have  some  rain,  by  the  shooting  of  my  corns.”  — 
“ The  shooting  of  your  horns,”  cried  my  wife,  in 
a loud  fit  of  laughter,  and  then  asked  pardon  for 
being  fond  of  a joke.  — “ Dear  madam,”  replied 
he,  “ I pardon  you  with  all  my  heart ; for  I pro- 
test I should  not  have  thought  it  a joke  had  you 
not  told  me.”  — “ Perhaps  not,  Sir,”  cried  my 
wife,  winking  at  us,  “ and  yet  I dare  say  you  can 
tell  us  how  many  jokes  go  to  an  ounce.”  — “I 
fancy,  madam,”  returned  Burchell,  “you  have 
been  reading  a jest-book  this  morning,  that  ounce 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  89 

of  jokes  is  so  very  good  a conceit ; and  yet,  madam, 
I had  rather  see  half  an  ounce  of  understanding.” 
— “I  believe  you  might,”  cried  my  wife,  still  smil- 
ing at  us,  though  the  laugh  was  against  her ; 
“ and  vet  I have  seen  some  men  pretend  to  under- 
standing that  have  very  little.”  — “ And  no  doubt,” 
replied  her  antagonist,  u vou  have  known  ladies 
set  up  for  wit  that  had  none.”  — I quickly  began 
to  find  that  my  wife  was  likely  to  gain  but  little 
at  this  business ; so  I resolved  to  treat  him  in  a 
style  of  more  severity  myself.  “ Both  wit  and 
understanding,”  cried  I,  are  trifles,  without  integ- 
rity ; it  is  that  which  gives  value  to  every  charac- 
ter. (The  ignorant  peasant,  without  fault,  is 
greater  than  the  philosopher  with  many ; for 
what  is  genius  or  courage  without  an  heart  1 An 
honest  man  is  the  noblest  work  of  God.”  ) 

“ I always  held  that  hackneyed  madam  of  Pope,” 
returned  Mr.  Burchell,  “ as  very  unworthy  of  a 
man  of  genius,  and  a base  desertion  of  his  own 
superiority.  As  the  reputation  of  books  is  raised, 
not  by  their  freedom  from  defect,  but  the  greatness 
of  their  beauties  ; so  should  that  of  men  be  prized, 
not  for  their  exemption  from  fault,  but  the  size  of 
those  virtues  they  are  possessed  of.  The  scholar 
may  want  prudence,  the  statesman  may  have  pride, 
and  the  champion  ferocity ; but  shall  we  prefer  to 
these  the  low  mechanic,  who  laboriously  plods 
through  life  without  censure  or  applause  ? We 
might  as  well  prefer  the  tame  correct  paintings  of 
the  Flemish  school,  to  the  erroneous,  but  sublime 
animations  of  the  Homan  pencil.” 

“ Sir,”  replied  I,  “ your  present  observation  is 
just,  when  there  are  shining  virtues  and  minute 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


90 

defects  ; but  when  it  appears  that  great  vices  are 
opposed  in  the  same  mind  to  as  extraordinary  vir- 
tues, such  a character  deserves  con  tempt.” 

“ Perhaps,”  cried  he,  “ there  may  be  some  such 
monsters  as  you  describe,  of  great  vices  joined  to 
great  virtues ; j et,  in  my  progress  through  life,  I 
never  yet  found  one  instance  of  their  existence  : 
on  the  contrary,  I have  ever  perceived,  that  where 
the  mind  was  capacious,  the  affections  were  good. 
And,  indeed,  Providence  seems  kindly  our  friend 
in  this  particular,  thus  to  debilitate  the  under- 
standing where  the  heart  is  corrupt,  and  diminish 
the  power  where  there  is  the  will  to  do  mischief. 
This  rule  seems  to  extend  even  to  other  animals : 
the  little  vermin  race  are  ever  treacherous,  cruel, 
and  cowardly,  whilst  those  endowed  with  strength 
and  power,  are  generous,  brave,  and  gentle.” 

“ These  observations  sound  well,”  returned  I, 
“ and  yet  it  would  be  easy  this  moment  to  point  out 
a man,”  and  I fixed  my  eye  steadfastly  upon  him, 
“ whose  head  and  heart  form  a most  detestable 
contrast.  Ay,  Sir,”  continued  I,  raising  my 
voice,  “ and  I am  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of 
detecting  him  in  the  midst  of  his  fancied  security. 
Do  you  know  this,  Sir,  this  pocket-book?”  — 
“ Yes,  Sir,”  returned  he,  with  a face  of  impenetra- 
ble assurance,  “ that  pocket-book  is  mine,  and  I 
am  glad  you  have  found  it.”  — “ And  do  you 
know,”  cried  I,  “ this  letter  ? Nay,  never  falter 
man,  but  look  me  full  in  the  face ; I say,  do  you 
know  this  letter  ? ” — “ That  letter,”  returned  he, 
“ yes,  it  was  I that  wrote  that  letter.”  — “ And 
how  could  you,”  said  I,  “ so  basely,  so  ungrate- 
fully, presume  to  write  this  letter  ? ” — “ And  how 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


9i 

came  you,”  replied  he,  with  looks  of  unparalleled 
effrontery,  “ so  basely  to  presume  to  break  open 
this  letter  ? Don’t  you  know,  now,  I could  hang 
you  all  for  this  ? All  that  I have  to  do  is  to 
swear  at  the  next  justice’s,  that  you  have  been 
guilty  of  breaking  open  the  lock  of  my  pocket- 
book,  and  so  hang  you  all  up  at  his  door.”  This 
piece  of  unexpected  insolence  raised  me  to  such  a 
pitch,  that  I could  scarcely  govern  my  passion. 
“ Ungrateful  wretch  ! begone,  and  no  longer  pol- 
lute my  dwelling  with  thy  baseness  : begone,  and 
never  let  me  see  thee  again.  Go  from  my  door ; 
and  the  only  punishment  I wish  thee  is  an  alarmed 
conscience,  which  will  be  a sufficient  tormentor ! ” 
So  saying,  I threw  him  his  pocket-book,  which  he 
took  up  with  a smile,  and  shutting  the  clasps  with 
the  utmost  composure,  left  us,  quite  astonished  at 
the  serenity  of  his  assurance.  My  wife  was  par- 
ticularly enraged  that  nothing  could  make  him 
angry,  or  make  him  seem  ashamed  of  his  villanies. 
“ My  dear,”  cried  I,  willing  to  calm  those  passions 
that  had  been  raised  too  high  among  us,  “ we  are 
not  to  be  surprised  that  bad  men  want  shame; 
they  only  blush  at  being  detected  in  doing  good, 
but  glory  in  their  vices. 

“ Guilt  and  Shame,  says  the  allegory,  were  at 
first  companions,  and  in  the  beginning  of  their 
journey  inseparably  kept  together.  But  their  un- 
ion was  soon  found  to  be  disagreeable  and  incon- 
venient to  both  ; Guilt  gave  Shame  frequent  unea- 
siness, and  Shame  often  betrayed  the  secret  con- 
spiracies of  Guilt.  After  long  disagreement,  there- 
fore, they  at  length  consented  to  part  for  ever. 
Guilt  boldly  walked  forward  alone,  to  overtake 


92 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


Fate,  that  went  before  in  the  shape  of  an  execu- 
tioner : but  Shame  being  naturally  timorous,  re- 
turned back  to  keep  company  with  Virtue,  which, 
in  the  beginning  of  their  journey,  they  had  left  be- 
hind. Thus  my  children,  after  men  have  travelled 
through  a few  stages  in  vice,  Shame  forsakes  them, 
and  returns  back  to  wait  upon  the  few  virtues  they 
have  still  remaining.” 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  Family  use  Art,  which  is  opposed  with 

STILL  GREATER. 

HATEVER  might  have  been  Sophia’s 
sensations,  the  rest  of  the  family  was 
easily  consoled  for  Mr.  Burchell’s  ab- 
sence by  the  company  of  our  landlord, 
whose  visits  now  became  more  frequent  and  longer. 
Though  he  had  been  disappointed  in  procuring  my 
daughters  the  amusements  of  the  town  as  he  de- 
signed, he  took  every  opportunity  of  supplying  them 
with  those  little  recreations  which  our  retirement 
would  admit  of.  He  usually  came  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  while  my  son  and  I followed  our  occupa- 
tions abroad,  he  sat  with  the  family  at  home,  and 
amused  them  by  describing  the  town,  with  every 
part  of  which  he  was  particularly  acquainted.  He 
could  repeat  all  the  observations  that  were  retailed 
in  the  atmosphere  of  the  play-houses,  and  had  all 
the  good  things  of  the  high  wits  by  rote  long  be- 
fore they  made  way  into  the  jest  books.  The  in- 
tervals between  conversation  were  employed  in 
teaching  my  daughters  piquet,  or  sometimes  in 
setting  my  two  little  ones  to  box,  to  make  them 
sharp,  as  he  called  it ; but  the  hopes  of  having  him 
for  a son-in-law,  in  some  measure  blinded  us  to  all 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


94 

his  imperfections.  It  must  be  owned  that  my  wife 
laid  a thousand  schemes  to  entrap  him  ; or,  to  speak 
it  more  tenderly,  used  every  art  to  magnify  the 
merit  of  her  daughter.  If  the  cakes  at  tea  eat  short 
and  crisp,  they  were  made  by  Olivia  ; if  the  goose- 
berry-wine was  well  knit,  the  gooseberries  were  of 
her  gathering ; it  was  her  fingers  which  gave  the 
pickles  their  peculiar  green ; and  in  the  composi- 
tion of  a pudding,  it  was  her  judgment  that  mixed 
the  ingredients.  Then  the  poor  woman  would 
sometimes  tell  the  Squire,  that  she  thought  him 
and  Olivia  extremely  of  a size,  and  would  bid  both 
stand  up  to  see  which  was  tallest.  These  instan- 
ces of  cunning,  which  she  thought  impenetrable, 
yet  which  every  body  saw  through,  were  very  pleas- 
ing to  our  benefactor,  who  gave  every  day  some 
new  proofs  of  his  passion,  which,  though  they  had 
not  arisen  to  proposals  of  marriage,  yet  we  thought 
fell  but  little  short  of  it ; and  his  slowness  was  at- 
tributed sometimes  to  native  bashfulness,  and  some- 
times to  his  fear  of  offending  his  uncle.  An  oc- 
currence, however,  which  happened  soon  after,  put 
it  beyond  a doubt  that  he  designed  to  become  one 
of  our  family ; my  wife  even  regarded  it  as  an  ab- 
solute promise. 

My  wife  and  daughters  happening  to  return  a 
visit  to  neighbor  Flamborough’s,  found  that  family 
had  lately  got  their  pictures  drawn  by  a limner, 
who  travelled  the  country,  and  took  likenesses  for 
fifteen  shillings  a head.  As  this  family  and  ours 
had  long  a sort  of  rivalry  in  point  of  taste,  our 
spirit  took  the  alarm  at  this  stolen  march  upon  us, 
and  notwithstanding  all  I could  say,  and  I said 
much,  it  was  resolved  that  we  should  have  our  pic- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


95 

tures  clone  too.  Having,  therefore,  engaged  the 
limner,  for  what  could  I do?  our  next  delibera- 
tion was  to  show  the  superiority  of  our  taste  in  the 
attitudes.  As  for  our  neighbor’s  family,  there  were 
seven  of  them,  and  they  were  drawn  with  seven 
oranges,  a thing  quite  out  of  taste,  no  variety  in 
life,  no  composition  in  the  world.  We  desired  to 
have  something  in  a brighter  style,  and,  after  many 
debates,  at  length  came  to  an  unanimous  resolution 
of  being  drawn  together  in  one  large  historical  fam- 
ily piece.  This  would  be  cheaper,  since  one  frame 
would  serve  for  all,  and  it  would  be  infinitely  more 
genteel ; for  all  families  of  any  taste  were  now 
drawn  in  the  same  manner.  As  we  did  not  im- 
mediately recollect  an  historical  subject  to  hit  us, 
we  were  contented  each  with  being  drawn  as  inde- 
pendent historical  figures.  My  wife  desired  to  be 
represented  as  Venus,  and  the  painter  was  desired 
not  to  be  too  frugal  of  his  diamonds  in  her  stoma- 
cher and  hair.  Her  two  little  ones  were  to  be.  as 
Cupids  by  her  side,  while  I,  in  my  gown  and  band, 
was  to  present  her  with  my  books  on  the  Whisto- 
nian  controversy.  Olivia  would  be  drawn  as  an 
Amazon,  sitting  upon  a bank  of  flowers,  dressed  in 
a green  Joseph,  richly  laced  with  gold,  and  a whip 
in  her  hand.  Sophia  was  to  be  a shepherdess,  with 
as  many  sheep  as  the  painter  could  put  in  for  noth- 
ing ; and  Moses  was  to  be  dressed  out  with  an  hat 
and  white  feather.  Our  taste  so  much  pleased  the 
Squire,  that  he  insisted  on  being  put  in  as  one  of 
the  family  in  the  character  of  Alexander  the  Great, 

at  Olivia’s  feet.  This  was  considered  bv  us  all  as 

«/ 

an  indication  of  his  desire  to  be  introduced  into 
the  family,  nor  could  we  refuse  his  request.  The 


96  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD: 

painter  was  therefore  set  to  work,  and  as  he 
wrought  with  assiduity  and  expedition,  in  less  than 
four  days  the  whole  was  completed.  The  piece 
was  large,  and  it  must  be  owned  he  did  not  spare 
his  colors ; for  which  my  wife  gave  him  great  en- 
comiums. We  were  all  perfectly  satisfied  with  his 
performance ; but  an  unfortunate  circumstance 
had  not  occurred  till  the  picture  was  finished, 
which  now  struck  us  with  dismay.  It  was  so  very 
large  that  we  had  no  place  in  the  house  to  fix  it. 
How  we  all  came  to  disregard  so  material  a point 
is  inconceivable  ; but  certain  it  is,  we  had  been  all 
greatly  remiss.  The  picture,  therefore,  instead  of 
gratifying  our  vanity,  as  we  hoped,  leaned,  in  a 
most  mortifying  manner,  against  the  kitchen  wall, 
where  the  canvas  was  stretched  and  painted,  much 
too  large  to  be  got  through  any  of  the  doors,  and 
the  jest  of  all  our  neighbors.  One  compared  it  to 
Robinson  Crusoe’s  long-boat,  too  large  to  be  re- 
moved ; another  thought  it  more  resembled  a reel  in 
a bottle  ; some  wondered  how  it  could  be  got  out, 
but  still  more  were  amazed  how  it  ever  got  in. 

But  though  it  excited  the  ridicule  of  some,  it 
effectually  raised  more  malicious  suggestions  in 
many.  The  Squire’s  portrait  being  found  united 
with  ours,  was  an  honor  too  great  to  escape  envy. 
Scandalous  whispers  began  to  circulate  at  our  ex- 
pense, and  our  tranquillity  was  continually  dis- 
turbed by  persons  who  came  as  friends  to  tell  us 
what  was  said  of  us  by  enemies.  These  reports 
we  always  resented  with  becoming  spirit;  but 
scandal  ever  improves  bv  opposition. 

We  once  again,  therefore,  entered  into  a consul- 
tation upon  obviating  the  malice  of  our  enemies, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


97 


and  at  last  came  to  a resolution  which  had  too 
much  cunning  to  give  me  entire  satisfaction.  It 
was  this.  As  our  principal  object  was  to  discover 
the  honor  of  Mr.  Thornhill’s  addresses,  my  wife 
undertook  to  sound  him,  by  pretending  to  ask  his 
advice  in  the  choice  of  a husband  for  her  eldest 
daughter.  If  this  was  not  found  sufficient  to  in- 
duce  him  to  a declaration,  it  was  then  resolved  to 
terrify  him  with  a rival.  To  this  last  step,  how- 
ever, I would  by  no  means  give  my  consent,  till 
Olivia  gave  me  the  most  solemn  assurances  that 
she  would  marry  the  person  provided  to  rival  him 
upon  this  occasion,  if  he  did  not  prevent  it  by  tak- 
ing her  himself.  Such  was  the  scheme  laid,  which, 
though  I did  not  strenuously  oppose,  I did  not  en- 
tirely approve. 

The  next  time,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Thornhill 
came  to  see  us,  my  girls  took  care  to  be  out  of  the 
way,  in  order  to  give  their  mamma  an  opportunity 
of  putting  her  scheme  in  execution  ; but  they  only 
retired  to  the  next  room,  from  whence  they  could 
overhear  the  whole  conversation.  My  wife  artfully 
introduced  it,  by  observing,  that  one  of  the  Miss 
Flamboroughs  was  like  to  have  a very  good  match 
of  it  in  Mr.  Spanker.  To  this  the  Squire  assent- 
ing, she  proceeded  to  remark,  that  they  who  had 
warm  fortunes  were  always  sure  of  getting  good 
husbands  : “ But  Heaven  help,”  continued  she, 
“ the  girls  that  have  none.  What  signifies  beauty, 
Mr.  Thornhill,  or  what  signifies  all  the  virtue,  and 
all  the  qualifications  in  the  world,  in  this  age  of  self- 
interest'?  It  is  not,  what  is  she?  but  what  has 
she  ? is  all  the  cry.” 

“ Madam,”  returned  he,  “ I highly  approve  the 

7 


98  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

justice  as  well  as  the  novelty  of  your  remarks,  and 
if  I were  a king,  it  should  be  otherwise.  It  should 
then,  indeed,  be  fine  times  with  the  girls  without 
fortunes  : our  two  young  ladies  should  be  the  first 
for  whom  I would  provide.” 

“ Ah,  Sir,”  returned  my  wife,  “ you  are  pleased 
to  be  facetious  : but  I wish  I were  a queen,  and 
then  I know  where  my  eldest  daughter  should  look 
for  an  husband.  But,  now  that  you  have  put  it 
into  my  head,  seriously,  Mr.  Thornhill,  can’t  you 
recommend  me  a proper  husband  for  her'?  She  is 
now  nineteen  years  old,  well  grown  and  well  edu- 
cated, and,  in  my  humble  opinion,  does  not  want 
for  parts.” 

“ Madam,”  replied  he,  “ if  I were  to  choose,  I 
would  find  out  a person  possessed  of  every  accom- 
plishment that  can  make  an  angel  happy.  One 
with  prudence,  fortune,  taste,  and  sincerity;  such, 
madam,  would  be,  in  my  opinion,  the  proper  hus- 
band.”— “ Ay,  Sir,”  said  she,  “ but  do  you  know 
of  any  such  person  ? ” — u No,  madam,”  returned 
he,  “ it  is  impossible  to  know  any  person  that  de- 
serves to  be  her  husband  : she ’s  too  great  a treas- 
ure for  one  man’s  possession  : she ’s  a goddess. 
Upon  my  soul,  I speak  what  I think,  she ’s  an  an- 
gel.” — “ Ah,  Mr.  Thornhill,  you  only  flatter  my 
poor  girl : but  we  have  been  thinking  of  marrying 
her  to  one  of  your  tenants,  whose  mother  is  lately 
dead,  and  who  wants  a manager  : you  know  whom 
I mean,  farmer  Williams ; a warm  man,  Mr. 
Thornhill,  able  to  give  her  good  bread  ; and  who 
has  several  times  made  her  proposals  ” (which  was 
actually  the  case) ; “ hut,  Sir,”  conducted  she,  “ I 
should  be  glad  to  have  your  approbation  of  our 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


99 


choice.”  — “ How,  Madam  ! ” replied  he,  “ my  ap- 
probation ! My  approbation  of  such  a choice ! 
Never.  What ! sacrifice  so  much  beauty,  and 
sense,  and  goodness,  to  a creature  insensible  of  the 
blessing ! Excuse  me,  I can  never  approve  of 
such  a piece  of  injustice ! And  I have  my  rea- 
sons ! ” — “ Indeed,  Sir,”  cried  Deborah,  “ if  you 
have  your  reasons,  that ’s  another  affair  ; but  I 
should  be  glad  to  know  those  reasons.”  — “ Ex- 
cuse me,  Madam,”  returned  he,  “ they  lie  too  deep 
for  discovery  ”:  (laying  his  hand  upon  his  bosom) 
“ they  remain  buried,  rivetted  here.” 

After  he  was  gone,  upon  general  consultation, 
we  could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  these  fine  senti- 
ments. Olivia  considered  them  as  instances  of  the 
most  exalted  passion;  but  I was  not  quite  so  san- 
guine : it  seemed  to  me  pretty  plain,  that  they  had 
more  of  love  than  matrimony  in  them  : yet,  what- 
ever they  might  portend,  it  was  resolved  to  prose- 
cute the  scheme  of  farmer  Williams,  who,  from  my 
daughter’s  first  appearance  in  the  country,  had 
paid  her  his  addresses. 


CHAPTER  - XVII. 

Scarcely  any  Virtue  found  to  resist  the 
Power  of  Long  and  Pleasing  Temptation. 

S I only  studied  my  child’s  real  happi- 
ness, the  assiduity  of  Mr.  Williams 
pleased  me,  as  he  was  in  easy  circum- 
stances, prudent,  and  sincere.  It  re- 
quired but  very  little  encouragement  ro  revive  his 
former  passion ; so  that  in  an  eveniug  or  two  he 
and  Mr.  Thornhill  met  at  our  house,  and  surveyed 
each  other  for  some  time  with  looks  of  anger  : but 
Williams  owed  his  landlord  no  rent,  and  little  re- 
garded his  indignation.  Olivia,  on  her  side,  acted 
the  coquette  to  perfection,  if  that  might  be  called 
acting  which  was  her  real  character,  pretending  to 
lavish  all  her  tenderness  on  her  new  lover.  Mr. 
Thornhill  appeared  quite  dejected  at  this  prefer- 
ence, and  with  a pensive  air  took  leave,  though  I 
own  it  puzzled  me  to  find  him  so  much  in  pain  as 
he  appeared  to  be,  when  he  had  it  in  his  power  so 
easily  to  remove  the  cause,  by  declaring  an  honor- 
able passion.  But  whatever  uneasiness  he  seemed 
to  endure,  it  could  easily  be  perceived  that  Olivia’s 
anguish  was  still  greater.  After  any  of  these  in- 
terviews between  her  lovers,  of  which  there  were 
several,  she  usually  retired  to  solitude,  and  there 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


IOI 


indulged  her  grief.  It  was  in  such  a situation  I 
found  her  one  evening,  after  she  had  been  for  some 
time  supporting  a fictitious  gayety.  — “ You  now 
see,  my  child, ” said  I,  “ that  your  confidence  in 
Mr.  Thornhill’s  passion  was  all  a dream : he  per- 
mits the  rivalry  of  another,  every  way  his  inferior, 
though  he  knows  it  lies  in  his  power  to  secure  you 
to  himself  by  a candid  declaration.”  — “ Yes,  pa- 
pa,” returned  she,  “ but  he  has  his  reasons  for  this 
delay  : I know  he  has.  The  sincerity  of  his  looks 
and  words  convince  me  of  his  real  esteem.  A short 
time,  I hope,  will  discover  the  generosity  of  his 
sentiments,  and  convince  you  that  my  opinion  of 
him  has  been  more  just  than  yours.”  — “Olivia, 
my  darling,”  returned  I,  “ every  scheme  that  has 
been  hitherto  pursued  to  compel  him  to  a declara- 
tion, has  been  proposed  and  planned  by  yourself, 
nor  can  you  in  the  least  say  that  I have  constrained 
you.  But  you  must  not  suppose,  my  dear,  that  I 
will  ever  be  instrumental  in  suffering  his  honest 
rival  to  be  the  dupe  of  your  ill-placed  passion. 
Whatever  time  you  require  to  bring  your  fancied 
admirer  to  an  explanation  shall  be  granted ; but 
at  the  expiration  of  that  term,  if  he  is  still  regard- 
less, I must  absolutely  insist  that  honest  Mr.  Wil- 
liams shall  be  rewarded  for  his  fidelity.  The  char- 
acter which  I have  hitherto  supported  in  life  de- 
mands this  from  me,  and  my  tenderness  as  a par- 
ent shall  never  influence  my  integrity  as  a man. 
Name  then  your  day,  let  it  be  as  distant  as  you 
think  proper,  and  in  the  mean  time  take  care  to 
let  Mr.  Thornhill  know  the  exact  time  on  which  I 
design  delivering  you  up  to  another.  If  he  really 
loves  you,  his  own  good  sense  will  readily  suggest 


102 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


that  there  is  but  one  method  alone  to  prevent  his 
losing  you  forever/’  This  proposal,  which  she 
could  not  avoid  considering  as  perfectly  just,  was 
readily  agreed  to.  She  again  renewed  her  most 
positive  promise  of  marrying  Mr.  Williams,  in  case 
of  the  other’s  insensibility  ; and  at  the  next  oppor- 
tunity, in  Mr.  Thornhill’s  presence,  that  day  month 
was  fixed  upon  for  her  nuptials  with  his  rival. 

Such  vigorous  proceedings  seemed  to  redouble 
Mr.  Thornhill’s  anxiety : but  what  Olivia  really 
felt  gave  me  some  uneasiness.  In  this  struggle 
between  prudence  and  passion,  her  vivacity  quite 
forsook  her,  and  every  opportunity  of  solitude  was 
sought,  and  spent  in  tears.  One  week  passed 
away;  but  Mr.  Thornhill  made  no  efforts  to  re- 
strain her  nuptials.  The  succeeding  week  he  was 
still  assiduous ; but  not  more  open.  On  the  third 
he  discontinued  his  visits  entirely,  and  instead  of 
my  daughter  testifying  any  impatience,  as  I ex- 
pected, she  seemed  to  retain  a pensive  tranquillity, 
which  I looked  upon  as  resignation.  For  my  own 
part,  I was  now  sincerely  pleased  with  thinking 
that  my  child  was  going  to  be  secured  in  a contin- 
uance of  competence  and  peace,  and  frequently 
applauded  her  resolution,  in  preferring  happiness 
to  ostentation. 

It  was  within  about  four  days  of  her  intended 
nuptials,  that  my  little  family  at  night  were  gath- 
ered round  a charming  fire,  telling  stories  of  the 
past,  and  laying  schemes  for  the  future.  Busied 
in  forming  a thousand  projects,  and  laughing  at 
whatever  folly  came  uppermost,  “ Well,  Moses,” 
cried  I,”  “ we  shall  soon,  my  boy,  have  a wedding 
in  the  family ; what  is  your  opinion  of  matters 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


103 

and  things  in  general  ? ” — “ My  opinion,  father, 
is,  that  all  things  go  on  very  well ; and  I was  just 
now  thinking,  that  when  sister  Livy  is  married  to 
Farmer  Williams,  we  shall  then  have  the  loan  of 
his  cider-press  and  brewing-tubs  for  nothing.”  — 
“ That  we  shall,  Moses,”  cried  I,  “ and  he  will 
sing  us  Death  and  the  Lady , to  raise  our  spirits 
into  the  bargain.” — “ He  has  taught  that  song  to 
our  Dick,”  cried  Moses,  “and  I think  he  goes 
through  it  very  prettily.”  — “ Does  he  so  ? ” cried 
I,  “ then  let  us  have  it  : where  ’s  little  Dick  ? let 
him  up  with  it  boldly.”  — “ My  brother  Dick,” 
cried  Bill,  my  youngest,  “ is  just  gone  out  with 
sister  Livy ; but  Mr.  Williams  has  taught  me 
two  songs,  and  I Ml  sing  them  for  you,  papa. 
Which  song  do  you  choose,  The  Dying  Swan,  or  The 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a Mad  Dog  ?”  — “The  elegy, 
child,  by  all  means,”  said  I ; “ I never  heard  that 
yet ; and  Deborah,  my  life,  grief  you  know  is  dry, 
let  us  have  a bottle  of  the  best  gooseberry-wine,  to 
keep  up  our  spirits.  I have  wept  so  much  at  all 
sorts  of  elegies  of  late,  that  without  an  enlivening 
glass  I am  sure  this  will  overcome  me ; and  So- 
phy, love,  take  your  guitar,  and  thrum  in  with  the 
boy  a little.” 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A MAD  DOG. 

Good  people  all  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song, 

And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 

That  still  a godly  race  he  ran, 

Whene’er  he  went  to  pray. 


104  TllE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

A kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes  *, 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 

Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  $ 

But  when  a pique  began, 

The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets, 

The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a man. 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 
To  every  Christian  eye  *, 

And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a wonder  came  to  light 
That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied, 

The  man  recovered  from  the  bite, 

The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

“ A very  good  boy,  Bill,  upon  my  word,  and  an 
elegy  that  may  truly  be  called  tragical.  Come, 
my  children,  here  's  Bill's  health,  and  may  he  one 
day  be  a bishop.” 

“ With  all  my  heart,”  cried  my  wife;  “and  if 
he  but  preaches  as  well  as  he  sings,  I make  no 
doubt  of  him.  The  most  of  his  family,  by  the 
mother's  side,  could  sing  a good  song.  It  was  a 
common  saying  in  our  country,  that  the  family  of 
the  Blenkinsops  could  never  look  straight  before 
them,  nor  the  Hugginsons  blow  out  a candle  ; 
that  there  were  none  of  the  Grograms  but  could 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


io5 

sing  a song,  or  of  the  Marjorams  but  could  tell  a 
story/’  — “ However  that  be,”  cried  I,  “ the  most 
vulgar  ballad  of  them  all  generally  pleases  me  bet- 
ter than  the  fine  modern  odes,  and  things  that 
petrify  us  in  a single  stanza  ; productions  that  we 
at  once  detest  and  praise.  Put  the  glass  to  your 
brother,  Moses.  The  great  fault  of  these  elegiasts 
is,  that  they  are  in  despair  for  griefs  that  give  the 
sensible  part  of  mankind  very  little  pain.  A lady 
loses  her  muff,  her  fan,  or  her  lapdog,  and  so  the 
silly  poet  runs  home  to  versify  the  disaster.” 

“ That  may  be  the  mode,”  cried  Moses,  “ in 
snblimer  compositions ; but  the  Ranelagh  songs 
that  come  down  to  us  are  perfectly  familiar,  and 
all  cast  in  the  same  mould  : Colin  meets  Dolly, 
and  they  hold  a dialogue  together ; he  gives  her 
a fairing  to  put  in  her  hair,  and  she  presents  him 
with  a nosegay ; and  than  they  go  together  to 
church,  where  they  give  good  advice  to  young 
nymphs  and  swains  to  get  married  as  fast  as  they 
can.” 

“ And  very  good  advice  too,”  cried  I,  “ and  I 
am  told  there  is  not  a place  in  the  world  where 
advice  can  be  given  with  so  much  propriety  as 
there  ; for,  as  it  persuades  us  to  marry,  it  also 
furnishes  us  with  a wife  ; and  surely  that  must  be 
an  excellent  market,  my  boy,  where  we  are  told 
what  we  want,  and  supplied  with  it  when  want- 
ing.” 

“ Yes,  Sir,”  returned  Moses,  “ and  I know  but 
of  two  such  markets  for  wives  in  Europe,  Rane- 
lagh  in  England,  and  Fontarabia  in  Spain.  The 
Spanish  market  is  open  once  a year,  but  our  Eng- 
lish wives  are  saleable  every  night.” 


io6  TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


“ You  are  right,  my  boy/’  cried  his  mother, 
“ Old  England  is  the  only  place  in  the  world  for 
husbands  to  get  wives.”  — “ And  for  wives  to 
manage  their  husbands,”  interrupted  I.  “ It  is  a 
proverb  abroad,  that  if  a bridge  were  built  across 
the  sea,  all  the  ladies  of  the  Continent  would 
come  over  to  take  pattern  from  ours  ; for  there  are 
no  such  wives  in  Europe  as  our  own.  But  let  us 
have  one  bottle  more,  Deborah,  my  life,  and,  Mo- 
ses, give  us  a good  song.  What  thanks  do  we  not 
owe  to  Heaven  for  thus  bestowing  tranquillity, 
health,  and  competence.  I think  myself  happier 
now  than  the  greatest  monarch  upon  earth.  He 
has  no  such  fireside,  nor  such  pleasant  faces  about 
it.  Yes,  Deborah,  we  are  now  growing  old ; but 
the  evening  of  our  life  is  likely  to  be  happy.  We 
are  descended  from  ancestors  that  knew  no  stain, 
and  we  shall  leave  a good  and  virtuous  race  of 
children  behind  us.  While  they  live  they  will  be 
our  support  and  our  pleasure  here,  aud  when  we 
die  they  will  transmit  our  honor  untainted  to  pos- 
terity. Come,  my  son,  we  wait  for  a song ; let 
us  have  a chorus.  But  where  is  my  darling 
Olivia  ? That  little  cherub’s  voice  is  always  sweet- 
est in  the  concert.”  — 

Just  as  I spoke  Dick  came  running  in,  “ O 
papa,  papa,  she  is  gone  from  us,  she  is  gone  from 
us,  my  sister  Livy  is  gone  from  us  forever  ! ” — 
“ Gone,  child  ! ” — “ Yes,  she  is  gone  off  with  two 
gentlemen  in  a post-chaise,  and  one  of  them  kissed 
her,  and  said  he  would  die  for  her  ; and  she  cried 
very  much,  and  was  for  coming  back  ; but  he 
persuaded  her  again,  and  she  went  into  the  chaise, 
and  said,  1 0 what  will  my  poor  papa  do  when 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


107 


he  knows  I am  undone  ! ’”  — “ Now  then/’  cried 
I,  “ my  children,  go  and  be  miserable  ; for  we 
shall  never  enjoy  one  hour  more.  And  O,  may 
heaven’s  everlasting  fury  light  upon  him  and  his ! 
Thus  to  rob  me  of  my  child  ! And  sure  it  will, 
for  taking  back  my  sweet  innocent  that  I was 
leading  up  to  heaven.  Such  sincerity  as  my  child 
was  possessed  of ! But  all  our  earthly  happiness 
is  now  over ! Go,  my  children,  go,  and  be  miser- 
able and  infamous  ; for  inv  heart  is  broken  within 
me  ! ” — “ Father,”  cried  my  son,  “ is  this  your 
fortitude  ? ” — “ Fortitude,  child  ! Yes,  he  shall 
see  I have  fortitude  ! Bring  me  my  pistols.  I ’ll 
pursue  the  traitor.  While  he  is  on  earth  I ’ll 
pursue  him.  Old  as  I am,  he  shall  find  I can 
sting  him  yet.  The  villain  ! The  pertidious  vil- 
lain ! ” 

I had  by  this  time  reached  down  my  pistols, 
when  my  poor  wife,  whose  passions  were  not  so 
strong  as  mine,  caught  me  in  her  arms.  “ My 
dearest,  dearest  husband,”  cried  she,  “ the  Bible 
is  the  only  weapon  that  is  fit  for  your  old  hands 
now.  Open  that,  my  love,  and  read  our  anguish 
into  patience,  for  she  has  vilely  deceived  us.”- — 
“ Indeed,  Sir,”  resumed  my  son,  after  a pause, 
“ your  rage  is  too  violent  and  unbecoming.  You 
should  be  my  mother’s  comforter,  and  you  increase 
her  pain.  It  ill  suited  you  and  your  reverend 
character,  thus  to  curse  your  greatest  enemy  : you 
should  not  have  curst  him,  villain  as  he  is.”  — “ I 
did  not  curse  him  child,  did  I ? ” — “ Indeed,  Sir, 
you  did;  you  curst  him  twice.”  — “ Then  may 
heaven  forgive  me  and  him  if  I did.  And  now, 
my  son,  I sec  it  was  more  than  human  benevo- 


io8  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


lence  that  first  taught  us  to  bless  our  enemies  ! 
Blest  be  his  holy  name  for  all  the  good  he  hath 
given,  and  for  all  that  he  hath  taken  away.  But 
it  is  not,  it  is  not  a small  distress  that  can  wring 
tears  from  these  old  eyes  that  have  not  wept  for 
so  many  years.  My  child  ! — To  undo  my  dar- 
ling ! May  confusion  seize  — Heaven  forgive  me, 
what  am  I about  to  say ! You  may  remember, 
my  love,  how  good  she  was,  and  how  charming  ; 
till  this  vile  moment  all  her  care  was  to  make  us 
happy.  Had  she  but  died  ! But  she  is  gone,  the 
honor  of  our  family  contaminated,  and  I must 
look  out  for  happiness  in  other  worlds  than  here. 
But,  my  child,  you  saw  them  go  off:  perhaps  he 
forced  her  away.  If  he  forced  her,  she  may  yet 
be  innocent.”  — “ Ah,  no,  Sir  ! ” cried  the  child  ; 
“ he  only  kissed  her,  and  called  her  his  angel,  and 
she  wept  very  much,  and  leaned  upon  his  arm,  and 
they  drove  off  very  fast.”  — “ She  *s  an  ungrateful 
creature,”  cried  my  wife,  who  could  scarce  speak 
for  weeping,  “ to  use  us  thus.  She  never  had  the 
least  constraint  put  upon  her  affections.  The  vile 
strumpet  has  basely  deserted  her  parents  without 
any  provocation,  thus  to  bring  your  gray  hairs  to 
the  grave,  and  I must  shortly  follow.” 

In  this  manner  that  night,  the  first  of  our  real 
misfortunes,  was  spent  in  the  bitterness  of  com- 
plaint, and  ill-supported  sallies  of  enthusiasm.  I 
determined,  however,  to  find  out  our  betrayer, 
wherever  he  was,  and  reproach  his  baseness.  The 
next  morning  we  missed  our  wretched  child  at 
breakfast,  where  she  used  to  give  life  and  cheerful- 
ness to  us  all.  My  wife,  as  before,  attempted  to 
ease  her  heart  by  reproaches.  “ Never,”  cried  she, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  109 

“ shall  that  vilest  stain  of  our  family  again  darken 
these  harmless  doors.  I will  never  call  her  daugh- 
ter more.  No,  let  the  strumpet  live  with  her  vile 
seducer  . she  may  bring  us  to  shame,  but  she  shall 
never  more  deceive  us.” 

“ Wife,”  said  I,  “ do  not  talk  thus  hardly  : my 
detestation  of  her  guilt  is  as  great  as  yours ; but 
ever  shall  this  house  and  this  heart  be  open  to  a 
poor  returning  repentant  sinner.  The  sooner  she 
returns  from  her  transgression,  the  more  welcome 
shall  she  be  to  me  Tor  the  first  time  the  very 
best  may  err ; art  may  persuade,  and  novelty  spread 
out  its  charm.  The  first  fault  is  the  child  of  sim- 
plicity; but  every  other  the  offspring  of  guilt. 
Yes,  the  wretched  creature  shall  be  welcome  to  this 
heart  and  this  house,  though  stained  with  ten 
thousand  vices.  I will  again  hearken  to  the  music 
of  her  voice,  again  will  I hang  fondly  on  her  bos- 
om, if  I find  but  repentance  there.  My  son,  bring 
hither  my  Bible  and  my  staff;  I will  pursue,  her, 
wherever  she  is,  and  though  I cannot  save  her  from 
shame,  I may  prevent  the  continuance  of  iniquity.” 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  Pursuit  of  a Father  to  reclaim  a Lost 
Child  to  Virtue. 

HOUGH  the  child  could  not  describe  the 
gentleman’s  person  who  handed  his 
sister  into  the  post-chaise,  yet  my  sus- 
picions fell  entirely  upon  our  young 
landlord,  whose  character  for  such  intrigues  was 
hut  too  well  known.  I therefore  directed  my  steps 
towards  Thornhill  Castle,  resolving  to  upbraid 
him,  and,  if  possible,  to  bring  back  my  daughter ; 
but  before  I had  reached  his  seat,  I was  met  by  one 
of  my  parishioners,  who  said  he  saw  a young  lady 
resembling  my  daughter  in  a post-chaise  with  a 
gentleman,  whom,  by  the  description,  I could  only 
guess  to  be  Mr.  Burchell,  and  that  they  drove  very 
fast.  This  information,  however,  did  by  no  means 
satisfy  me.  I therefore  went  to  the  young  Squire’s, 
and,  though  it  was  yet  early,  insisted  upon  seeing 
him  immediately.  He  soon  appeared  with  the  most 
open  familiar  air,  and  seemed  perfectly  amazed  at 
my  daughter’s  elopement,  protesting  upon  his  hon- 
or that  he  was  quite  a stranger  to  it.  I now  there- 
fore condemned  my  former  suspicions,  and  could 
turn  them  only  on  Mr.  Burchell,  who,  I recollected, 
had  of  late  several  private  conferences  with  her; 


TEE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


1 1 1 


but  the  appearance  of  another  witness  left  me  no 
room  to  doubt  of  his  villany,  who  averred,  that  he 
and  my  daughter  were  actually  gone  towards  the 
Wells,  about  thirty  miles  otf,  where  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  company. 

Being  driven  to  that  state  of  mind  in  which  we 
are  more  ready  to  act  precipitately  than  to  reason 
right,  I never  debated  with  myself  whether  these 
accounts  might  not  have  been  given  by  persons 
purposely  placed  in  my  way,  to  mislead  me,  but 
resolved  to  pursue  my  daughter  and  her  fancied 
deluder  thither.  I walked  along  with  earnestness, 
and  inquired  of  several  bv  the  way ; but  received 
no  accounts,  till,  entering  the  town,  I was  met  by 
a person  on  horseback,  whom  I remembered  to 
have  seen  at  the  Squire’s,  and  he  assured  me,  that 
if  I followed  them  to  the  races,  which  were  but 
thirty  miles  farther,  I might  depend  upon  overtak- 
ing them ; for  he  had  seen  them  dance  there  the 
night  before,  and  the  whole  assembly  seemed 
charmed  with  my  daughter’s  performance.  Early 
the  next  day  I walked  forward  to  the  races,  and 
about  four  in  the  afternoon  I came  upon  the  course. 
The  company  made  a very  brilliant  appearance, 
all  earnestly  employed  in  one  pursuit,  that  of 
pleasure ; how  different  from  mine,  that  of  reclaim- 
ing a lost  child  to  virtue ! I thought  I perceived 
Mr.  Burchell  at  some  distance  from  me ; but,  as  if 
he  dreaded  an  interview,  upon  my  approaching  him, 
he  mixed  among  a crowd,  and  I saw  him  no  more. 

I now  reflected  that  it  would  be  to  no  pur- 
pose to  continue  my  pursuit  farther,  and  resolved 
to  return  home  to  an  innocent  family,  who  wanted 
my  assistance.  But  the  agitations  of  my  mind, 


I 12 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


and  the  fatigues  I had  undergone,  threw  me  into  a 
fever,  the  symptoms  of  which  I perceived  before  I 
came  off  the  course.  This  was  another  unexpected 
stroke,  as  I was  more  than  seventy  miles  distant 
from  home  : however,  I retired  to  a little  alehouse 
by  the  roadside,  and  in  this  place,  the  usual  retreat 
of  indigence  and  frugality,  I laid  me  down  patiently 
to  wait  the  issue  of  my  disorder.  I languished 
here  for  near  three  weeks ; but  at  last  mv  consti- 
tution prevailed,  though  I was  unprovided  with 
money  to  defray  the  expenses  of  my  entertainment. 
It  is  possible  the  anxiety  from  this  last  circumstance 
alone  might  have  brought  on  a relapse,  had  I not 
been  supplied  by  a traveller,  who  stopped  to  take 
a cursory  refreshment.  This  person  was  no  other 
than  the  philanthropic . bookseller  in  St.  Paul’s 
Churchyard,  who  has  written  so  many  little  books 
for  children : he  called  himself  their  friend  ; but 
he  was  the  friend  of  all  mankind.  He  was  no 
sooner  alighted,  but  he  was  in  haste  to  be  gone ; 
for  he  was  ever  on  business  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance, and  was  at  that  time  actually  compiling  ma- 
terials for  the  history  of  one  Mr.  Thomas  Trip. 
I immediately  recollected  this  good-natured  man’s 
red  pimpled  face ; for  he  had  published  for  me 
against  the  Deuterogamists  of  the  age,  and  from 
him  I borrowed  a few  pieces,  to  be  paid  at  my  re- 
turn. Leaving  the  inn,  therefore,  as  I was  yet  but 
weak,  I resolved  to  return  home  by  easy  journeys 
of  ten  miles  a day.  My  health  and  usual  tran- 
quillity were  almost  restored,  and  I now  condemned 
that  pride  which  had  made  me  refractory  to  the 
hand  of  correction.  Man  little  knows  what  calam- 
ities are  beyond  his  patience  to  bear  till  he  tries 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


1 1 3 

them  ; ias,  in  ascending  the  heights  of  ambition, 
which  look  bright  from  below,  every  step  we  rise 
shows  us  some  new  and  gloomy  prospect  of  hidden 
disappointment ; so,  in  oar  descent  from  the  sum- 
mits of  pleasure,  though  the  vale  of  misery  below 
may  appear  at  first  dark  and  gloomy,  yet  the  busy 
mind,  still  attentive  to  its  own  amusement,  finds  as 
we  descend  something  to  flatter  and  to  please.^ 
\ Still  as  we  approach,  the  darkest  objects  appear  to' 
brighten,  and  the  mental  eye  becomes  adapted  to 
its  gloomy  situation.  ) 

I now  proceeded  forward,  and  had  walked  about 
two  hours,  when  I perceived  what  appeared  at  a 
distance  like  a wagon,  which  I was  resolved  to  over- 
take ; but  when  I came  up  with  it  found  it  to  be  a 
strolling  company’s  cart,  that  was  carrying  their 
scenes  and  other  theatrical  furniture  to  the  next 
village,  where  they  were  to  exhibit.  The  cart  was 
attended  only  by  the  person  who  drove  it  and  one 
of  the  company,  as  the  rest  of  the  players  were  to 
follow  the  ensuing  day.  Good  company  upon  the 
road,  says  the  proverb,  is  the  shortest  cut,  I there- 
fore entered  into  conversation  with  the  poor  player ; 
and  as  I once  had  some  theatrical  powers  myself, 

I disserted  on  such  topics  with  my  usual  freedom . 
but  as  I was  pretty  much  unacquainted  with  the 
present  state  of  the  stage,  I demanded  who  were 
the  present  theatrical  writers  in  vogue,  who  the 
Drydens  and  Otways  of  the  day.  — “I  fancy,  Sir,” 
cried  the  player,  “ few  of  our  modern  dramatists 
would  think  themselves  much  honored  by  being 
compared  to  the  writers  you  mention.  Dryden’s 
and  Rowe’s  manner,  Sir,  are  quite  out  of  fashion ; 
our  taste  has  gone  back  a whole  century  ; Fletcher, 

8 


1 14  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

Ben  Jonson,  and  all  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  are 
the  only  things  that  go  down.”  — “ How,”  cried 
I,  “ is  it  possible  the  present  age  can  be  pleased 
with  that  antiquated  dialect,  that  obsolete  humor, 
those  over-charged  characters,  which  abound  in 
the  works  you  mention  ? ” — “ Sir,”  returned  my 
companion,  “ the  public  think  nothing  about  dia- 
lect, or  humor,  or  character ; for  that  is  none  of 
their  business;  they  only  go  to  be  amused,  and 
find  themselves  happy  when  they  can  enjoy  a pan- 
tomime, under  the  sanction  of  Jonson’s  or  Shake- 
speare’s name.”  — “ So  then,  I suppose,”  cried  I, 
“ that  our  modern  dramatists  are  rather  imitators 
of  Shakespeare  than  of  nature.”  — “ To  say  the 
truth,”  returned  my  companion,  “ I don’t  know 
that  they  imitate  anything  at  ail : nor  indeed, 
does  the  public  require  it  of  them  : it  is  not  the 
composition  of  the  piece,  but  the  number  of  starts 
and  attitudes  that  may  be  introduced  into  it,  that 
elicits  applause.  I have  known  a piece,  with  not 
one  jest  in  the  whole,  shrugged  into  popularity, 
and  another  saved  by  the  poet’s  throwing  in  a fit 
of  the  gripes.  No,  Sir,  the  works  of  Congreve 
and  Farquhar  have  too  much  wit  in  them  for  the 
present  taste ; our  modern  dialect  is  much  more 
natural.” 

By  this  time  the  equipage  of  the  strolling  com- 
pany was  arrived  at  the  village,  which,  it  seems, 
had  been  apprised  of  our  approach,  and  was  come 
out  to  gaze  at  us  ; for  my  companion  observed, 
that  strollers  always  have  more  spectators  without 
doors  than  within.  I did  not  consider  the  impro- 
priety of  my  being  in  such  company  till  I saw  a 
mob  gather  about  me.  I therefore  took  shelter,  as 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


JI5 

fast  as  possible,  in  the  first  alehouse  that  offered, 
and  being  shown  into  the  common  room,  was  ac- 
costed by  a very  well-dressed  gentleman,  who  de- 
manded whether  I was  the  real  chaplain  of  the 
company,  or  whether  it  was  only  to  be  my  mas- 
querade character  in  the  play.  Upon  informing 
him  of  the  truth,  and  that  I did  not  belong  in  any 
sort  to  the  company,  he  was  condescending  enough 
to  desire  me  and  the  player  to  partake  in  a bowl 
of  punch,  over  which  he  discussed  modern  politics 
with  great  earnestness  and  interest.  I set  him 
down  in  my  own  mind  for  nothing  less  than  a 
parliament-man  at  least;  but  was  almost  confirmed 
in  my  conjectures,  when,  upon  asking  what  there 
was  in  the  house  for  supper,  he  insisted  that  the 
player  and  I should  sup  with  him  at  his  house, *• 
with  which  request,  after  some  entreaties,  we  were 
prevailed  on  to  comply. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


The  Description  of  a Person  discontented 
with  the  Present  Government,  and  appre- 
hensive OF  THE  LOSS  OF  OUR  LIBERTIES. 

HE  house  where  we  were  to  be  enter-r 
tained  lying  at  a small  distance  from 
the  village,  our  inviter  observed,  that 
as  the  coach  was  not  ready,  he  would 
conduct  us  on  foot,  and  we  soon  arrived  at  one  of 
the  most  magnificent  mansions  I had  seen  in  that 
part  of  the  country.  The  apartment  into  which 
we  were  shown  was  perfectly  elegant  and  modern  ; 
he  went  to  give  orders  for  supper,  while  the  player, 
with  a wink,  observed  that  we  were  perfectly  in 
luck.  Our  entertainer  soon  returned,  an  elegant 
supper  was  brought  in,  two  or  three  ladies  in  an 
easy  dishabille  were  introduced,  and  the  conversa- 
tion began  with  some  sprightliness.  Politics, 
however,  were  the  subject  on  which  our  enter- 
tainer chiefly  expatiated  : for  he  asserted  that  lib- 
erty was  at  once  his  boast  and  his  terror.  After 
the  cloth  was  removed,  he  asked  me  if  I had  seen 
the  last  Monitor ; to  which  replying  in  the  negative, 

“ What,  nor  the  Auditor,  I suppose  ? ” cried  he. 

“ Neither,  Sir,”  returned  I. — “ That  V strange, 
very  strange,”  replied  my  entertainer.  “ Now,  I 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


117 


read  all  the  politics  that  come  out.  The  Daily, 
the  Public,  the  Ledger,  the  Chronicle,  the  London 
Evening,  the  Whitehall  Evening,  the  seventeen 
magazines,  and  the  two  reviews ; and  though  they 
hate  each  other,  I love  them  all.  Liberty,  Sir, 
liberty  is  the  Briton’s  boast,  and  by  all  my  coal 
mines  in  Cornwall,  I reverence  its  guardians.” 
“ Then  it  is  to  be  hoped,”  cried  I,  “ you  reverence 
the  king.”  — “ Yes,”  returned  my  entertainer, 
“ when  he  does  what  we  would  have  him ; but  if 
he  goes  on  as  he  has  done  of  late,  I ’ll  never 
trouble  myself  more  with  his  matters.  I say  noth- 
ing. I think  only.  I could  have  directed  some 
things  better.  I don’t  think  there  has  been  a 
sufficient  number  of  advisers  : he  should  advise 
with  every  person  willing  to  give  him  advice,  and 
then  we  should  have  things  done  in  another  guess 
manner.” 

“ I wish,”  cried  I,  “ that  such  intruding  advis- 
ers were  fixed  in  the  pillory.  It  should  be  the 
duty  of  honest  men  to  assist  the  weaker  side  of 
our  constitution,  that  sacred  power  that  has  for 
some  years  been  every  day  declining,  and  losing 
its  due  share  of  influence  in  the  state.  But  these 
ignorants  still  continue  the  cry  of  liberty,  and  if 
they  have  any  weight,  basely  throw  it  into  the 
subsiding  scale.” 

“ How  ! ” cried  one  of  the  ladies,  “ do  I live  to 
see  one  so  base,  so  sordid,  as  to  be  an  enemy  to 
liberty,  and  a defender  of  tyrants  ? Liberty,  that 
sacred  gift  of  Heaven,  that  glorious  privilege  of 
Britons  ! ” 

“ Can  it  be  possible,”  cried  our  entertainer, 
“ that  there  should  be  any  found  at  present  advo- 


Ii8  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


cates  for  slavery  ? Any  who  are  for  meanly  giving 
up  the  privileges  of  Britons  ? Can  any,  Sir,  be 
so  abject  ? ” 

“ No,  Sir,”  replied  I,  “I  am  for  liberty,  that 
attribute  of  gods  ! Glorious  liberty  ! that  theme 
of  modem  declamation.  I would  have  all  men 
kings.  I would  be  a king  myself.  We  have  all 
naturally  an  equal  right  to  the  throne  : we  are  all 
originally  equal.  This  is  my  opinion,  and  was 
once  the  opinion  of  a set  of  honest  men  who  were 
called  Levellers.  They  tried  to  erect  themselves 
into  a community,  where  all  should  be  equally 
free.  But,  alas  ! it  would'  never  answer ; for  there 
were  some  among  them  stronger,  and  some  more 
cunning  than  others,  and  these  became  masters  of 
the  rest ; for  as  sure  as  your  groom  rides  your 
horses,  because  he  is  a cunninger  animal  than  they, 
so  surely  will  the  animal  that  is  cunninger  or 
stronger  than  he,  sit  upon  his  shoulders  in  turn. 
Since,  then,  it  is  entailed  upon  humanity  to  sub- 
mit, and  some  are  born  to  command,  and  others 
to  obey,  the  question  is,  as  there  must  be  tyrants, 
whether  it  is  better  to  have  them  in  the  same 
house  with  us,  or  in  the  same  village,  or  still  far- 
ther off,  in  the  metropolis.  Now,  Sir,  for  my  own 
part,  as  I naturally  hate  the  face  of  a tyrant,  the 
farther  off  he  is  removed  from  me,  the  better 
pleased  am  I.  The  generality  of  mankind  also 
are  of  my  way  of  thinking,  and  have  unanimously 
created  one  king,  whose  election  at  once  dimin- 
ishes the  number  of  tyrants,  and  puts  tyranny  at 
the  greatest  distance  from  the  greatest  number  of 
people.  Now  the  great,  who  were  tyrants  them- 
selves before  the  election  of  one  tyrant,  are  natu- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


119 

rally  averse  to  a power  raised  over  them,  and 
whose  weight  must  ever  lean  heaviest  on  the  sub- 
ordinate orders.  It  is  the  interest  of  the  great, 
therefore,  to  diminish  kingly  power  as  much  as 
possible ; because  whatever  they  take  from  that  is 
naturally  restored  to  themselves  ; and  all  they 
have  to  do  in  the  state,  is  to  undermine  the  single 
tyrant,  by  which  they  resume  their  primeval  au- 
thority. Now  the  state  may  be  so  circumstanced, 
or  its  laws  may  be  so  disposed,  or  its  men  of  opu- 
lence so  minded,  as  all  to  conspire  in  carrying  on 
this  business  of  undermining  monarchy.  For,  in 
the  first  place,  if  the  circumstances  of  our  state  be 
such  as  to  favor  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  and 
make  the  opulent  still  more  rich,  this  will  increase 
their  ambition.  An  accumulation  of  wealth,  how- 
ever, must  necessarily  be  the  consequence,  when, 
as  at  present,  more  riches  flow  in  from  external 
commerce  than  arise  from  internal  industry  ; for 
external  commerce  can  only  be  managed  to  advan- 
tage by  the  rich,  and  they  have  also  at  the  same 
time  all  the  emoluments  arising  from  internal  in- 
dustry ; so  that  the  rich,  with  us,  have  two  sources 
of  wealth,  whereas  the  poor  have  but  one.  For 
this  reason,  wealth,  in  all  commercial  states,  is 
found  to  accumulate,  and  all  such  have  hitherto  in 
time  become  aristocratical. 

“ Again,  the  very  laws  also  of  this  country  may 
contribute  to  the  accumulation  of  wealth  ; as  when 
by  their  means  the  natural  ties  that  bind  the  rich 
and  poor  together  are  broken,  and  it  is  ordained, 
that  the  rich  shall  only  marry  with  the  rich  ; or 
when  the  learned  are  held  unqualified  to  serve 
their  country  as  counsellors  merely  from  a defect  of 


120 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


opulence,  and  wealth  is  thus  made  the  object  of  a 
wise  man’s  ambition  ; by  these  means,  I say,  and 
such  means  as  these,  riches  will  accumulate.  Now 
the  possessor  of  accumulated  wealth,  when  fur- 
nished with  the  necessaries  and  pleasures  of  life, 
has  no  other  method  to  employ  the  superfluity  of 
his  fortune  but  in  purchasing  power.  That  is, 
differently  speaking,  in  making  dependants,  by 
purchasing  the  liberty  of  the  needy  or  the  venal,  pf 
men  who  are  willing  to  bear  the  mortification  of 
contiguous  tyranny  for  bread.  Thus  each  very  op- 
ulent man  generally  gathers  round  him  a circle  of 
the  poorest  of  the  people  ; and  the  polity  abounding 
in  accumulated  wealth,  may  be  compared  to  a 
Cartesian  system,  each  orb  with  a vortex  of  its 
own.  Those,  however,  who  are  willing  to  move 
in  a great  man’s  vortex,  are  only  such  as  must  be 
slaves,  the  rabble  of  mankind,  whose  souls  and 
whose  education  are  adapted  to  servitude,  and  who 
know  nothing  of  liberty  except  the  name. 

“ But,  there  must  still  be  a large  number  of  the 
people  without  the  sphere  of  the  opulent  man’s 
influence,  namely,  that  order  of  men  which  sub- 
sists between  the  very  rich  and  the  very  rabble ; 
those  men  who  are  possessed  of  too  large  fortunes 
to  submit  to  the  neighboring  man  in  power,  and 
yet  are  too  poor  to  set  up  for  tyranny  themselves. 
In  this  middle  order  of  mankind  are  generally  to 
be  found  all  the  arts,  wisdom,  and  virtues  of  soci- 
ety. This  order  alone  is  known  to  be  the  true 
preserver  of  freedom,  and  may  be  called  the  Peo- 
ple. Now  it  may  happen  that  this  middle  order 
of  mankind  may  lose  all  its  influence  in  a state, 
and  its  voice  be  in  a manner  drowned  in  that  of 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


1ZI 


the  rabble;  for  if  the  fortune  sufficient  for  qualify- 
ing- a person  at  present  to  give  his  voice  in  state 
affairs,  be  ten  times  less  than  was  judged  suffi- 
cient upon  forming  the  constitution,  it  is  evident 
that  great  numbers  of  the  rabble  will  thus  be  intro- 
duced into  the  political  system,  and  they,  ever  mov- 
ing in  the  vortex  of  the  great,  will  follow  where 
greatness  shall  direct.  In  such  a state,  therefore, 
all  that  the  middle  order  has  left,  is  to  preserve 
the  prerogative  and  privileges  of  the  one  principal 
governor,  with  the  most  sacred  circumspection. 
For  he  divides  the  power  of  the  rich,  and  calls  off 
the  great  from  falling  with  tenfold  weight  on  the 
middle  order  placed  beneath  them.  The  middle 
order  may  be  compared  to  a town,  of  which  the 
opulent  are  forming  the  siege,  and  of  which  the  gov- 
ernor from  without  is  hastening  the  relief.  While 
the  besiegers  are  in  dread  of  an  enemy  over  them, 
it  is  but  natural  to  offer  the  townsmen  the  most 
specious  terms ; to  Hatter  them  with  sounds,  and 
amuse  them  with  privileges;  but  if  they- once 
defeat  the  governor  from  behind,  the  walls  of  the 
town  will  be  but  a small  defence  to  its  inhabitants. 
What  they  may  then  expect,  may  be  seen  by  turn- 
ing our  eyes  to  Holland,  Genoa,  or  Venice,  where 
the  laws  govern  the  poor,  and  the  rich  govern  the 
law.  I am  then  for,  and  would  die  for,  monarchy, 
sacred  monarchy  ; for  if  there  be  anything  sacred 
amongst  men,  it  must  be  the  anointed  sovereign 
of  his  people,  and  every  diminution  of  his  power, 
in  war  or  in  peace,  is  an  infringement  upon  the 
real  liberties  of  the  subject.  The  sounds  of  liberty, 
patriotism,  and  Britons,  have  already  done  much  ; 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  true  sons  of  freedom  will 


122 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


prevent  their  ever  doing  more.  I have  known 
many  of  those  pretended  champions  for  liberty  in 
my  time,  yet  do  I not  remember  one  that  was  not 
in  his  heart  and  in  his  family  a tyrant.” 

My  warmth  I found  had  lengthened  this  ha- 
rangue beyond  the  rules  of  good  breeding ; but 
the  impatience  of  my  entertainer,  who  often  strove 
to  interrupt  it,  could  be  restrained  no  longer. 
“ What ! ” cried  he,  “ then  I have  been  all  this 
while  entertaining  a Jesuit  in  parson’s  clothes  ! 
but,  by  all  the  coal  mines  of  Cornwall,  out  he 
shall  pack,  if  my  name  be  Wilkinson.”  I now 
found  I had  gone  too  far,  and  asked  pardon  for 
the  warmth  with  which  I had  spoken.  “ Pardon  ! ” 
returned  he,  in  a fury  : “ I think  such  principles 
demand  ten  thousand  pardons.  What ! give  up 
liberty,  property,  and,  as  the  Gazetteer  says,  lie 
down  to  be  saddled  with  wooden  shoes  ! Sir,  I 
insist  upon  your  marching  out  of  this  house  im- 
mediately, to  prevent  worse  consequences.  Sir,  I 
insist  upon  it.”  I was  going  to  repeat  my  remon- 
strances ; but  just  then  we  heard  a footman’s  rap 
at  the  door,  and  the  two  ladies  cried  out,  “As 
sure  as  death  there  is  our  master  and  mistress 
come  home!”  It  seems  my  entertainer  was  all 
this  while  only  the  butler,  who,  in  his  master’s 
absence,  had  a mind  to  cut  a figure,  and  be  for  a 
while  the  gentleman  himself;  and,  to  say  the 
truth,  he  talked  politics  as  well  as  most  country 
gentlemen  do.  But  nothing  could  now  exceed  my 
confusion  upon  seeing  the  gentleman  and  his  lady 
enter ; nor  was  their  surprise  at  finding  such  com- 
pany and  good  cheer,  less  than  ours.  “Gentle- 
men,” cried  the  real  master  of  the  house  to  me  and 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


123 

my  companion,  “ my  wife  and  I are  your  most  hum- 
ble servants  ; but  I protest  this  is  so  unexpected  a 
favor,  that  we  almost  sink  under  the  obligation.” 
However  unexpected  our  company  might  be  to 
them,  theirs,  I am  sure,  was  still  more  so  to  us, 
and  I was  struck  dumb  with  the  apprehensions  of 
my  own  absurdity,  when,  whom  should  I next  see 
enter  the  room  but  my  dear  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot, 
who  was  formerly  designed  to  be  married  to  my 
son  George  ; but  whose  match  was  broken  off,  as 
alreadv  related.  As  soon  as  she  saw  me,  she  flew 
to  my  arms  with  the  utmost  joy.  “ My  dear  sir,” 
cried  she,  “ to  what  happy  accident  is  it  that  we 
owe  so  unexpected  a visit  ? I am  sure  my  uncle 
and  aunt  will  be  in  raptures  when  they  find  they 
have  the  good  Dr.  Primrose  for  their  guest.” 
Upon  hearing  my  name,  the  old  gentleman  and 
lady  very  politely  stept  up,  and  welcomed  me 
with  most  cordial  hospitality.  Nor  could  they 
forbear  smiling  upon  being  informed  of  the  nature 
of  my  present  visit : but  the  unfortunate  butler, 
whom  they  at  first  seemed  disposed  to  turn  away, 
was  at  my  intercession  forgiven. 

Mr.  Arnold  and  his  lady,  to  whom  the  house 
belonged,  now  insisted  upon  having  the  pleasure 
of  my  stay  for  some  days,  and  as  their  niece,  my 
charming  pupil,  whose  mind  in  some  measure  had 
been  formed  under  my  own  instructions,  joined  in 
their  entreaties,  I complied.  That  night  I was 
shown  to  a magnificent  chamber,  and  the  next 
morning  early  Miss  Wilmot  desired  to  walk  with 
me  in  the  garden,  which  was  decorated  in  the 
modern  manner.  After  some  time  spent  in  point- 
ing out  the  beauties  of  the  place,  she  inquired, 


124  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 

with  seeming  unconcern,  when  last  I had  heard 
from  my  son  George.  “ Alas  ! Madam,”  cried  I, 
“ he  has  now  been  near  three  years  absent,  with- 
out ever  writing  to  his  friends  or  me.  Where 
he  is  I know  not ; perhaps  I shall  never  see  him 
or  happiness  more.  No,  my  dear  Madam,  we 
shall  never  more  see  such  pleasing  hours  as  were 
once  spent  by  our  fireside  at  Wakefield.  My 
little  family  are  now  dispersing  very  fast,  and  pov- 
erty has  brought  not  only  want,  but  infamy  upon 
us.”  The  good-natured  girl  let  fall  a tear  at  this 
account;  but  as  I saw  her  possessed  of  too  much 
sensibility,  I forebore  a more  minute  detail  of  our 
sufferings.  It  was,  however,  some  consolation  to 
me  to  find  that  time  had  made  no  alteration  in 
her  affections,  and  that  she  had  rejected  several 
matches  that  had  been  made  her  since  our  leaving 
her  part  of  the  country.  She  led  me  round  all 
the  extensive  improvements  of  the  place,  pointing 
to  the  several  walks  and  arbors,  and  at  the  same 
time  catching  from  every  object  a hint  for  some 
new  question  relative  to  my  son. 

In  this  manner  we  spent  the  forenoon,  till  the 
bell  summoned  us  in  to  dinner,  where  we  found 
the  manager  of  the  strolling  company  that  I men- 
tioned before,  who  was  come  to  dispose  of  tickets 
for  the  Fair  Penitent,  which  was  to  be  acted  that 
evening,  the  part  of  Horatio  by  a young  gentleman 
who  had  never  appeared  on  any  stage.  He  seemed 
to  be  very  warm  in  the  praises  of  the  new  perform- 
er, and  averred,  that  he  never  saw  any  who  bid  so 
fair  for  excellence.  “ Acting,”  he  observed,  was 
not  learned  in  a day ; “ but  this  gentleman,”  con- 
tinued he,  “seems  born  to  tread  the  stage.  Ilis- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


I25 


voice,  his  figure,  and  attitudes,  are  all  admirable. 
We  caught  him  up  accidentally  in  our  journey 
down.”  This  account,  in  some  measure,  excited 
our  curiosity,  and  at  the  entreaty  of  the  ladies,  I 
was  prevailed  upon  to  accompany  them  to  the 
play-house,  which  was  no  other  than  a barn.  As 
the  company  with  which  I went  was  incontestably 
the  chief  of  the  place,  we  were  received  with  the 
greatest  respect,  and  placed  in  the  front  seat  of  the 
theatre;  where  we  sat  for  some  time  with  no  small 
impatience  to  see  Horatio  make  his  appearance. 
The  new  performer  advanced  at  last ; and  let  par- 
ents think  of  my  sensations  by  their  own,  when  I 
found  it  was  my  unfortunate  son.  He  was  going 
to  begin,  when,  turning  his  eyes  upon  the  audience, 
he  perceived  Miss  Wilmot  and  me,  and  stood  at 
once  speechless  and  immoveable.  The  actors  be- 
hind the  scene,  who  ascribed  this  pause  to  his  nat- 
ural timidity,  attempted  to  encourage  him;  but 
instead  of  going  on,  he  burst  into  a flood  of  tears, 
and  retired  off  the  stage.  I don’t  know  what  were 
my  feelings  on  this  occasion  ; for  they  succeeded 
with  too  much  rapidity  for  description ; but  I was 
soon  awaked  from  this  disagreeable  reverie  by  Miss 
Wilmot,  who,  pale  and  with  a trembling  voice, 
desired  me  to  conduct  her  back  to  her  uncle’s. 
When  got  home,  Mr.  Arnold,  who  was  as  yet  a 
stranger  to  our  extraordinary  behavior,  being  in- 
formed that  the  new  performer  was  my  son,  sent 
his  coach  and  an  invitation  for  him ; and,  as  he 
persisted  in  his  refusal  to  appear  again  upon  the 
stage,  the  players  put  another  in  his  place,  and  we 
soon  had  him  with  us.  Mr.  Arnold  gave  him  the 
kindest  reception,  and  I received  him  with  my 


126  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


usual  transport ; for  I could  never  counterfeit  false 
resentment.  Miss  Wilmot’s  reception  was  mixed 
with  seeming  neglect,  and  yet  I could  perceive  she 
acted  a studied  part.  The  tumult  in  her  mind 
seemed  not  yet  abated ; she  said  twenty  giddy 
things  that  looked  like  joy,  and  then  laughed  loud 
at  her  own  want  of  meaning.  At  intervals  she 
would  take  a sly  peep  at  the  glass,  as  if  happy  in 
the  consciousness  of  unresisted  beauty,  and  often 
would  ask  questions  without  giving  any  manner  of 
attention  to  the  answers. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  History  of  a Philosophic  Vagabond  pur- 
suing Novelty,  but  losing  Content. 

FTER  we  had  supped,  Mrs.  Arnold  po- 
litely offered  to  send  a couple  of  her 
footmen  for  my  son’s  baggage,  which 
he  at  first  seemed  to  decline ; but  upon 
her  pressing  the  request,  he  was  obliged  to  inform 
her,  that  a stick  and  a wallet  were  all  the  movable 
things  upon  this  earth  that  he  could  boast  of. 
“ Why,  ay,  my  son,”  cried  I,  “ you  left  me  but 
poor,  and  poor  I find  you  are  come  back ; and  yet 
I make  no  doubt  you  have  seen  a great  deal  of  the 
world.” — “ Yes,  Sir,”  replied  my  son,  “ but  trav- 
elling after  fortune  is  not  the  way  to  secure  her ; 
and  indeed,  of  late  I have  desisted  from  the  pur- 
suit.” — “I  fancy,  Sir,”  cried  Mrs.  Arnold,  “ that 
the  account  of  your  adventures  would  be  amusing; 
the  first  part  of  them  I have  often  heard  from  my 
niece,  but  could  the  company  prevail  for  the  rest, 
it  would  be  an  additional  obligation.”  — “ Madam,” 
replied  my  son,  “ I promise  you  the  pleasure  you 
have  in  hearing,  will  not  be  half  so  great  as  my 
vanity  in  repeating  them  ; and  yet  in  the  whole 
narrative  I can  scarce  promise  you  one  adventure, 
as  my  account  is  rather  of  what  I saw  than  what 


128  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


I did.  The  first  misfortune  of  my  life,  which  you 
all  know,  was  great,  but  though  it  distressed,  it 
could  not  sink  me.  No  person  ever  had  a better 
knack  at  hoping  than  I.  The  less  kind  I found 
Fortune  at  one  time,  the  more  I expected  from  her  at 
another,  and  being  now  at  the  bottom  of  her  wheel, 
every  new  revolution  might  lift,  but  could  not  de- 
press me.  I proceeded,  therefore,  towards  London 
in  a fine  morning,  no  way  uneasy  about  to-mor- 
row, but  cheerful  as  the  birds  that  carolled  by  the 
road,  and  comforted  myself  with  reflecting,  that 
London  was  the  mart  where  abilities  of  every  kind 
were  sure  of  meeting  distinction  and  reward. 

“ Upon  my  arrival  in  town,  Sir,  my  first  care 
was  to  deliver  your  letter  of  recommendation  to 
our  cousin,  who  was  himself  in  little  better  cir- 
cumstances than  I.  My  first  scheme  you  know, 
Sir,  was  to  be  usher  at  an  academy,  and  I asked 
his  advice  on  the  affair.  Our  cousin  received  the 
proposal  with  a true  sardonic  grin.  ‘Ay  / cried  he, 
‘ this  is  indeed  a very  pretty  career  that  has  been 
chalked  out  for  you.  I have  been  an  usher  at  a 
boarding-school  myself,  and  may  I die  by  an  ano- 
dyne necklace,  but  I had  rather  be  an  under-turn- 
key in  Newgate.  I was  up  early  and  late  ; I was 
browbeat  by  the  master,  hated  for  my  ugly  face  by 
the  mistress,  worried  by  the  boys  within,  and  never 
permitted  to  stir  out  to  meet  civility  abroad.  But 
are  you  sure  you  are  fit  for  a school  ? Let  me  ex- 
amine you  a little.  Have  you  been  bred  apprentice 
to  the  business  ? ’ — < No/  — ‘ Then  you  won’t  do  for 
a school.  Can  you  dress  the  boys’  hair  ? 9 — ‘ No.’ 
— ‘ Then  you  won’t  do  for  a school.  Haye  you  lmd 
the  small-pox  V — ‘ No.’  — ‘ Then  you  won’t  do  for 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


1 29 

a school.  Can  you  lie  three  in  a bed  V — ‘ No.’  — 
‘ Then  you  will  never  do  for  a school.  Have  you 
got  a good  stomach  ? ’ — ‘ Yes.’  — ‘ Then  you  will 
by  no  means  do  for  a school.  No,  Sir  : if  you  are 
for  a genteel,  easy  profession,  bind  yourself  seven 
years  as  an  apprentice  to  turn  a cutler’s  wheel ; but 
avoid  a school  by  any  means.  Yet  come,  continued 
he,  I see  you  are  a lad  of  spirit  and  some  learning, 
what  do  you  think  of  commencing  author,  like  me  ? 
You  have  read  in  books,  no  doubt,  of  men  of  ge- 
nius starving  at  the  trade ; at  present  1 ’ll  show 
you  forty  very  dull  fellows  about  town  that  live  by 
it  in  opulence.  All  honest  jog-trot  men,  who  go 
on  smoothly  and  duly,  and  write  history  and  poli- 
tics, and  are  praised  : men,  Sir,  who,  had  they  been 
bred  cobblers,  would  all  their  lives  have  only 
mended  shoes,  but  never  made  them.’ 

“ Finding  that  there  was  no  great  degree  of  gen- 
tilitv  affixed  to  the  character  of  an  usher,  I resolved 
to  accept  his  proposal,  and  having  the  highest  re- 
spect for  literature,  hailed  the  antiqua  mater  of  Grub 
Street  with  reverence.  I thought  it  my  glory  to 
pursue  a track  which  Dry  den  and  Otway  trod  be- 
fore me.  I considered  the  goddess  of  this  region 
as  the  parent  of  excellence,  and,  however  an  inter- 
course with  the  world  might  give  us  good  sense, 
the  poverty  she  granted  I supposed  to  be  the  nurse 
of  genius.  Big  with  these  reflections,  I sat  down, 
and  finding  that  the  best  things  remained  to  be 
said  on  the  wrong  side,  I resolved  to  write  a book 
that  should  be  wholly  new.  I therefore  dressed  up 
some  paradoxes  with  ingenuity.  They  were  false, 
indeed,  but  they  were  new.  The  jewels  of  truth 
have  been  so  often  imported  by  others,  that  noth- 

9 


1-0  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

J t 

ing  was  left  for  me  to  import,  bat  some  splendid 
things  that,  at  a distance,  looked  every  bit  as  well. 
Witness,  you  powers,  what  fancied  importance  sat 
perched  upon  my  quill  while  I was  writing!  The 
whole  learned  world,  I made  no  doubt,  would  rise 
to  oppose  my  systems ; but  then  I was  prepared  to 
oppose  the  whole  learned  world.  Like  the  porcu- 
pine I sat  self-collected,  with  a quill  pointed  against 
every  opposer.” 

“ Well  said,  my  boy,”  cried  I,  “and  what  sub- 
ject did  you  treat  upon  ? I hope  you  did  not  pass 
over  the  importance  of  monogamy.  But  I inter- 
rupt, go  on  ; you  published  your  paradoxes  ; well, 
and  what  did  the  learned  world  say  to  your  para- 
doxes ? ” 

“ Sir,”  replied  my  son,  “ the  learned  world  said 
nothing  to  my  paradoxes,  nothing  at  all,  Sir 
Every  man  of  them  was  employed  in  praising  his 
friends  and  himself,  or  condemning  his  enemies ; 
and,  unfortunately,  as  I had  neither,  I suffered  the 
crudest  mortification,  neglect. 

“ As  I was  meditating  one  day  in  a coffee-house 
on  the  fate  of  my  paradoxes,  a little  man  happen- 
ing to  enter  the  room,  placed  himself  in  the  box 
before  me,  and  after  some  preliminary  discourse, 
finding  me  to  be  a scholar,  drew  out  a bundle  of 
proposals,  begging  me  to  subscribe  to  a new  edi- 
tion he  was  going  to  give  to  the  world  of  Proper- 
tius, with  notes.  This  demand  necessarily  pro- 
duced a reply  that  I had  no  money  ; and  that  con- 
cession led  him  to  inquire  into  the  nature  of  my 
expectations.  Finding  that  my  expectations  were 
just  as  great  as  my  purse,  ‘ I see/  cried  he,  * you  are 
unacquainted  with  the  town  ; I 'll  teach  you  a part 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


*3* 

of  it.  Look  at  these  proposals  ; upon  these  very 
proposals  I have  subsisted  very  comfortably  for 
twelve  years.  The  moment  a nobleman  returns 
from  his  travels,  a Creoliau  arrives  from  Jamaica, 
or  a dowager  from  her  country-seat,  I strike  for  a 
subscription.  I first  besiege  their  hearts  with  flat- 
tery, and  then  pour  in  my  proposals  at  the  breach. 
If  they  subscribe  readily  the  first  time,  I renew  my 
request  to  beg  a dedication  fee.  If  they  let  me 
have  that,  I smite  them  once  more  for  engraving 
their  coat  of  arms  at  the  top.  Thus/  continued  he, 
‘I  live  by  vanity,  and  laugh  at  it.  But  between 
ourselves,  I am  now  too  well  known ; I should  be 
glad  to  borrow  your  face  a bit ; a nobleman  of  dis- 
tinction has  just  returned  from  Italy ; my  face  is 
familiar  to  his  porter  ; but  if  you  bring  this  copy  of 
verses,  my  life  for  it  you  succeed,  and  we  divide 
the  spoil.’  ” 

“ Bless  us,  George,”  cried  I,  “ and  is  this  the 
employment  of  poets  now?  Do  men  of  their  ex- 
alted talents  thus  stoop  to  beggary  ? Can  they  so 
far  disgrace  their  calling,  as  to  make  a vile  traffic 
of  praise  for  bread  ? ” 

“ O no,  Sir,”  returned  he,  “ a true  poet  can  never 
be  so  base ; for  wherever  there  is  genius  there  is 
pride.  The  creatures  I now  describe  are  only 
beggars  in  rhyme.  The  real  poet,  as  he  braves 
every  hardship  for  fame,  so  he  is  equally  a coward 
to  contempt,  and  none  but  those  who  are  unwor- 
thy protection  condescend  to  solicit  it.” 

“ Having  a mind  too  proud  to  stoop  to  such  in- 
dignities, and  yet  a fortune  too  humble  to  hazard 
a second  attempt  for  fame,  I was  now  obliged  to 
take  a middle  course,  and  write  for  bread.  But  I 


1 32 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


was  unqualified  for  a profession  where  mere  indus- 
try alone  was  to  ensure  success.  I could  not  sup- 
press my  lurking  passion  for  applause  ; but  usually 
consumed  that  time  in  efforts  after  excellence  which 
takes  up  but  little  room,  when  it  should  have  been 
more  advantageously  employed  in  the  diffusive 
productions  of  fruitful  mediocrity.  Mv  little  piece 
would  therefore  come  forth  in  the  midst  of  periodi- 
cal publication,  unnoticed  and  unknown.  The 
public  were  more  importantly  employed,  than  to 
observe  the  easy  simplicity  of  my  style,  or  the  har- 
mony of  my  periods.  Sheet  after  sheet  was  thrown 
off  to  oblivion.  My  essays  were  buried  among  the 
essays  upon  liberty,  eastern  tales,  and  cures  for  the 
bide  of  a mad  dog;  while  Philautos,  Philalethes, 
Phileleutheros,  and  Philanthropos,  all  wrote  better, 
because  they  wrote  faster,  than  I. 

“ Now,  therefore,  I began  to  associate  with  none 
but  disappointed  authors,  like  myself,  who  praised, 
deplored,  and  despised  each  other.  The  satisfac- 
tion we  found  in  every  celebrated  writer’s  attempts, 
was  inversely  as  their  merits.  I found  that  no 
genius  in  another  could  please  me.  My  unfortu- 
nate paradoxes  had  entirely  dried  up  that  source 
of  comfort.  I could  neither  read  nor  write  with 
satisfaction ; for  excellence  in  another  was  my 
aversion,  and  writing  was  my  trade. 

“ In  the  midst  of  these  gloomy  reflections,  as  I 
was  one  day  sitting  on  a bench  in  St.  James’s 
Park,  a young  gentleman  of  distinction,  who  had 
been  my  intimate  acquaintance  at  the  university, 
approached  me.  We  saluted  each  other  with 
some  hesitation ; he  almost  ashamed  of  being 
known  to  one  who  made  so  shabby  an  appearance. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  133 

and  I afraid  of  a repulse.  But  my  suspicions 
soon  vanished  ; for  Ned  Thornhill  was  at  the  bot- 
tom a very  good-natured  fellow.” 

“ What  did  you  say,  George  ? ” interrupted  I. 
“ Thornhill,  was  not  that  his  name  ? It  can  cer- 
tainly be  no  other  than  my  landlord/’  — “ Bless 
me,”  cried  Mrs.  Arnold,  “ is  Mr.  Thornhill  so 
near  a neighbor  of  yours  ? He  has  long  been  a 
friend  in  our  family,  and  we  expect  a visit  from 
him  shortly.” 

“ My  friend’s  first  care,”  continued  my  son,  was 
to  alter  my  appearance  by  a very  fine  suit  of  his 
own  clothes,  and  then  I was  admitted  to  his  table, 
upon  the  footing  of  half-friend,  half-underling. 
My  business  was  to  attend  him  at  auctions,  to  put 
him  in  spirits  when  he  sat  for  his  picture,  to  take 
the  left  hand  in  his  chariot  when  not  filled  by  an- 
other, and  to  assist  at  tattering  a kip,  as  the  phrase 
was,  when  we  had  a mind  for  a frolic.  Besides 
this,  I had  twenty  other  little  employments  in  the 
family.  I was  to  do  many  small  things  without 
bidding  : to  carry  the  corkscrew,  to  stand  god- 
father to  all  the  butler’s  children,  to  sing  when  I 
was  bid,  to  be  never  out  of  humor,  always  to  be 
humble,  and,  if  I could,  to  be  very  happy. 

“ In  this  honorable  post,  however,  I was  not 
without  a rival.  A captain  of  marines,  who  was 
formed  for  the  place  by  nature,  opposed  me  in  my 
patron’s  affections.  His  mother  had  been  laun- 
dress to  a man  of  quality,  and  thus  he  early  ac- 
quired a taste  for  pimping  and  pedigree.  As  this 
gentleman  made  it  the  study  of  his  life  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  lords,  though  he  was  dismissed  from 
several  for  his  stupidity,  yet  he  found  many  of 


i34  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

them,  who  were  as  dull  as  himself,  that  permitted 
his  assiduities.  As  flattery  was  his  trade,  he  prac- 
tised it  with  the  easiest  address  imaginable ; but  it 
came  awkward  and  stiff  from  me ; and,  as  every 
day  my  patron’s  desire  of  flattery  increased,  so 
every  hour,  being  better  acquainted  with  his  de- 
fects, I became  more  unwilling  to  give  it.  Thus 
I was  once  more  fairly  going  to  give  up  the  field 
to  the  captain,  when  my  friend  found  occasion  for 
my  assistance.  This  was  nothing  less  than  to 
fight  a duel  for  him,  with  a gentleman  whose  sis- 
ter it  was  pretended  he  had  used  ill.  I readily 
complied  with  his  request,  and  though  I see  you 
are  displeased  at  my  conduct,  yet  as  it  was  a debt 
indispensably  due  to  friendship,  I could  not  refuse. 
I undertook  the  affair,  disarmed  my  antagonist, 
and  soon  after  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  that  the 
lady  was  only  a woman  of  the  town,  and  the  fel- 
low her  bully  and  a sharper.  This  piece  of  ser- 
vice was  repaid  with  the  warmest  professions  of 
gratitude  ; but  as  my  friend  was  to  leave  town  in 
a few  days,  he  knew  no  other  method  of  serving 
me,  but  by  recommending  me  to  his  uncle,  Sir 
William  Thornhill,  and  another  nobleman  of  great 
distinction,  who  enjoyed  a post  under  the  govern- 
ment. When  he  was  gone,  my  first  care  was  to 
carry  his  recommendatory  letter  to  his  uncle,  a 
man  whose  character  for  every  virtue  was  univer- 
sal, yet  just.  I was  received  by  his  servants  with 
the  most  hospitable  smiles  ; for  the  looks  of  the 
domestics  ever*transmit  their  master’s  benevolence. 
Being  shown  into  a grand  apartment,  where  Sir 
William  soon  came  to  me,  I delivered  my  message 
and  letter,  which  he  read,  and  after  pausing  some 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


*35 

minutes,  ‘Pray,  Sir/  cried  he,  ‘ inform  me  what  you 
have  done  for  mv  kinsman,  to  deserve  this  warm 
recommendation  ? But  I suppose,  Sir,  I guess 
your  merits,  you  have  fought  for  him  ; and  so  you 
would  expect  a reward  from  me  for  being  the  in- 
strument of  his  vices  ? I wish,  sincerely  wish,  that 
my  present  refusal  may  be  some  punishment  for 
your  guilt;  but  still  more,  that  it  may  be  some  in- 
ducement to  your  repentance/  — The  severity  of  this 
rebuke  I bore  patiently,  because  I knew  it  was  just. 
My  whole  expectations  now,  therefore,  lay  in  my 
letter  to  the  great  man.  As  the  doors  of  the  nobil- 
ity are  almost  ever  beset  with  beggars,  all  ready  to 
thrust  in  some  sly  petition,  I found  it  no  easy  mat- 
ter to  gain  admittance.  However,  after  bribing  the 
servants  with  half  my  worldly  fortune,  I was  at  last 
shown  into  a spacious  apartment,  my  letter  being 
previously  sent  up  for  his  lordship’s  inspection. 
During  this  anxious  interval  I had  full  time  to 
look  round  me.  Everything  was  grand  and  of 
happy  contrivance ; the  paintings,  the  furniture, 
the  gildings,  petrified  me  with  awe,  and  raised  my 
idea  of  the  owner.  Ah,  thought  I to  myself,  how 
very  great  must  the  possessor  of  all  these  things 
be,  who  carries  in  his  head  the  business  of  the 
state,  and  whose  house  displays  half  the  wealth  of 
a kingdom  : sure  his  genius  must  be  unfathom- 
able ! During  these  awful  reflections  I heard  a 
step  come  heavily  forward.  Ah,  this  is  the  great 
man  himself!  No,  it  was  only  a chambermaid. 
Another  foot  was  heard  soon  after.  This  must  be 
he ! No,  it  was  only  the  great  man’s  valet  de 
chambre.  At  last  his  lordship  actually  made  his 
appearance.  ‘ Are  you,’  cried  he, 4 the  bearer  of  this 


136  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 

i 

here  letter  ? 3 I answered  with  a bow.  4 I learn  by 
this/  continued  he,  ‘as  bow  that  — ’ But  just  at 
that  instant  a servant  delivered  him  a card,  and, 
without  taking  further  notice,  he  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  left  me  to  digest  my  own  happiness  at 
leisure.  I saw  no  more  of  him,  till  told  by  a foot- 
man that  his  lordship  was  going  to  his  coach  at 
the  door.  Down  I immediately  followed,  and 
joined  my  voice  to  that  of  three  or  four  more,  who 
came,  like  me,  to  petition  for  favors.  His  lordship, 
however,  went  too  fast  for  us,  and  was  gaining  his 
chariot-door  with  large  strides,  when  I hallooed 
out  to  know  if  I was  to  have  any  reply.  He  was 
by  this  time  got  in,  and  muttered  an  answer,  half 
of  which  I only  heard,  the  other  half  was  lost  in 
the  rattling  of  his  chariot-wheels.  I stood  for 
some  time  with  my  neck  stretched  out,  in  the  pos- 
ture of  one  that  was  listening  to  catch  the  glorious 
sounds,  till  looking  round  me,  I found  myself 
alone  at  his  lordship’s  gate. 

“ My  patience,”  continued  my  son,  “ was  now 
quite  exhausted.  Stung  with  the  thousand  indig- 
nities I had  met  with,  I was  willing  to  cast  myself 
away,  and  only  wanted  the  gulf  to  receive  me. 
I regarded  myself  as  one  of  those  vile  things  that 
nature  designed  should  be  thrown  by  into  her 
lumber-room,  there  to  perish  in  obscurity.  I had 
still,  however,  half  a guinea  left,  and  of  that  I 
thought  nature  herself  should  not  deprive  me  ; but, 
in  order  to  be  sure  of  this,  I was  resolved  to  go  in- 
stantly and  spend  it  while  I had  it,  and  then  trust 
to  occurrences  for  the  rest.  As  I was  going  along 
with  this  resolution,  it  happened  that  Mr.  Crispe’s 
office  seemed  invitingly  open  to  give  me  a wel- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


137 

come  reception.  In  this  office  Mr.  Crispe  kindly 
offers  all  his  majesty’s  subjects  a generous  promise 
of  30/.  a-year,  for  which  promise  all  they  give  in 
return  is  their  liberty  for  life,  and  permission  to 
let  him  transport  them  to  America  as  slaves.  I 
was  happy  at  finding  a place  where  I could  lose 
my  fears  in  desperation,  and  entered  this  cell,  for 
it  had  the  appearance  of  one,  with  the  devotion  of 
a monastic.  Here  I found  a number  of  poor  crea- 
tures, all  in  circumstances  like  myself,  expecting 
the  arrival  of  Mr.  Crispe,  presenting  a true  epit- 
ome of  English  impatience.  Each  untractable 
soul  at  variance  with  Fortune,  wreaked  her  injuries 
on  their  own  hearts  : but  Mr.  Crispe  at  last  came 
down  and  all  our  murmurs  were  hushed.  He 
deigned  to  regard  me  with  an  air  of  peculiar  ap- 
probation, and  indeed  he  was  the  first  man  who 
for  a month  past  talked  to  me  with  smiles.  After 
a few  questions,  he  found  I was  fit  for  everything 
in  the  world.  He  paused  awhile  upon  the  proper- 
est  means  of  providing  for  me,  and  slapping  his 
forehead  as  if  he  had  found  it,  assured  me,  that 
there  was  at  that  time  an  embassy  talked  of  from 
the  synod  of  Pennsylvania  to  the  Chickasaw  In- 
dians, and  that  he  would  use  his  interest  to  get 
me  made  secretary.  I knew  in  my  own  heart  that 
the  fellow  lied,  and  yet  his  promise  gave  me  pleas- 
ure, there  was  something  so  magnificent  in  the 
sound.  I fairly,  therefore,  divided  my  half  guinea, 
one  half  of  which  went  to  be  added  to  his  thirty 
thousand  pound,  and  with  the  other  half  I re- 
solved to  go  to  the  next  tavern  to  be  there  more 
happy  than  he. 

“ As  I was  going  out  with  that  resolution,  I 


1 38  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

1 

was  met  at  the  door  by  the  captain  of  a ship,  with 
whom  I had  formerly  some  little  acquaintance, 
and  he  agreed  to  be  my  companion  over  a* bowl  of 
punch.  As  I never  chose  to  make  a secret  of  my 
circumstances,  he  assured  me  that  I was  upon  the 
very  point  of  ruin  in  listening  to  the  office-keeper’s 
promises ; for  that  he  only  designed  to  sell  me  to 
the  plantations.  ‘ But/  continued  he,  ‘ I fancy  you 
might,  by  a much  shorter  voyage,  be  very  easily 
put  into  a genteel  way  of'  bread.  Take  my  advice. 
My  ship  sails  to-morrow  for  Amsterdam.  What 
if  you  go  in  her  as  a passenger  % The  moment 
you  land  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  teach  the  Dutch- 
men English,  and  I’ll  warrant  you’ll  get  pupils 
and  money  enough.  I suppose  you  understand 
English,’  added  he, ( by  this  time,  or  the  deuse  is  in 
it.’  I confidently  assured  him  of  that ; but  ex- 
pressed a doubt  whether  the  Dutch  would  be  wil- 
ling to  learn  English.  He  affirmed  with  an  oath 
that  they  were  fond  of  it  to  distraction  ; and  upon 
that  affirmation  I agreed  with  his  proposal,  and 
embarked  the  next  day  to  teach  the  Dutch  English 
in  Holland.  The  wind  was  fair,  our  voyage  short, 
and  after  having  paid  my  passage  with  half  my 
movables,  I found  myself,  fallen  as  from  the  skies, 
a stranger  in  one  of  the  principal  streets  of  Am- 
sterdam. In  this  situation  I was  unwilling  to  let 
any  time  pass  unemployed  in  teaching.  I ad- 
dressed myself,  therefore,  to  two  or  three  of  those 
I met,  whose  appearance  seemed  most  promising  ; 
but  it  was  impossible  to  make  ourselves  mutually 
understood.  It  was  not  till  this  very  moment  I 
recollected,  that,  in  order  to  teach  Dutchmen  En- 
glish, it  was  necessary  that  they  should  first  teach 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  139 

me  Dutch.  How  I came  to  overlook  so  obvious 
an  objection  is  to  me  amazing ; but  certain  it  is  I 
overlooked  it. 

“ This  scheme  thus  blown  up,  I had  some 
thoughts  of  fairly  shipping  back  to  England 
again ; but  falling  into  company  with  an  Irish 
student,  who  was  returning  from  Louvain,  our 
conversation  turning  upon  topics  of  literature 
(for  by  the  way  it  may  be  observed  that  I always 
forgot  the  meanness  of  my  circumstances  when  I 
could  converse  upon  such  subjects),  from  him  I 
learned  that  there  were  not  two  men  in  his  whole 
university  who  understood  Greek.  This  amazed 
me.  I instantly  resolved  to  travel  to  Louvain, 
and  there  live  hy  teaching  Greek ; and  in  this  de- 
sign I was  heartened  by  my  brother  student,  who 
threw  out  some  hints  that  a fortune  might  be  got 
by  it. 

“ I set  boldly  forward  the  next  morning.  Every 
day  lessened  the  burthen  of  my  movables,  like 
JEsop  and  his  basket  of  bread  ; for  I paid  them 
for  my  lodgings  to  the  Dutch  as  I travelled  on. 
When  I came  to  Louvain,  I was  resolved  not  to 
go  sneaking  to  the  lower  professors,  but  openly 
tendered  my  talents  to  the  principal  himself.  I 
went,  had  admittance,  and  offered  him  my  service 
as  a master  of  the  Greek  language,  which  I had 
been  told  was  a desideratum  in  this  university. 
The  principal  seemed  at  first  to  doubt  of  my  abili- 
ties ; hut  of  these  I offered  to  convince  him,  by 
turning  a part  of  any  Greek  author  he  should  fix 
upon  into  Latin.  Finding  me  perfectly  earnest 
in  my  proposal,  he  addressed  me  thus  : * You  see 

me,  young  man/  continued  he,  ‘ I never  learned 


1 4o  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

Greek,  and  I don’t  find  that  I have  ever  missed  it. 
I have  had  a doctor’s  cap  and  gown  without 
Greek  ; I have  ten  thousand  florins  a year  with- 
out Greek  ; I eat  heartily  without  Greek  ; and  in 
short,’  continued  he,  ‘ as  I don’t  know  Greek,  I do 
not  believe  there  is  any  good  in  it.’  . 

“ I was  now  too  far  from  home  to  think  of  return- 
ing ; so  I resolved  to  go  forward.  I had  some 
knowledge  of  music,  with  a tolerable  voice,  and  I 
now  turned  what  was  once  my  amusement  into  a 
present  means  of  subsistence.  I passed  among  the 
harmless  peasants  of  Flanders,  and  among  such 
of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very 
merry  ; for  I ever  found  them  sprightly  in  pro- 
portion to  their  wants.  Whenever  I approached 
a peasant’s  house  towards  nightfall,  I played  one 
of  my  most  merry  tunes,  and  that  procured  me 
not  only  a lodging,  but  subsistence  for  the  next 
day.  I once  or  twice  attempted  to  play  for  people 
of  fashion  ; but  they  always  thought  my  perform- 
ance odious,  and  never  rewarded  me  even  with  a 
trifle.  This  was  to  me  the  more  extraordinary, 
as  whenever  I used  in  better  days  to  play  for  com- 
pany, when  playing  was  my  amusement,  my  mu- 
sic never  failed  to  throw  them  into  raptures,  and 
the  ladies  especially  ; hut,  as  it  was  now  my  only 
means,  it  was  received  with  contempt;  a proof 
how  ready  the  world  is  to  underrate  those  talents 
by  which  a man  is  supported. 

“ In  this  manner  I proceeded  to  Paris,  with  no 
design  but  just  to  look  about  me,  and  then  to  go 
forward.  The  people  of  Paris  are  much  fonder  of 
strangers  that  have  money  than  of  those  that  have 
wit.  As  I could  not  boast  much  of  either,  I was 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


141 

no  great  favorite.  After  walking  about  the  town 
four  or  five  days,  and  seeing  the  outsides  of  the 
best  houses,  I was  preparing  to  leave  this  retreat 
of  venal  hospitality,  when,  passing  through  one  of 
the  principal  streets,  whom  should  I meet  but  our 
cousin  to  whom  you  first  recommended  me.  This 
meeting  was  very  agreeable  to  me,  and  I believe 
not  displeasing  to  him.  He  inquired  into  the 
nature  of  my  journey  to  Paris,  and  informed  me 
of  his  own  business  there,  which  was  to  collect 
pictures,  medals,  intaglios,  and  antiques  of  all 
kinds,  for  a gentleman  in  London,  who  had  just 
stepped  into  taste  and  a large  fortune.  I was  the 
more  surprised  at  seeing  our  cousin  pitched  upon 
for  this  office,  as  he  himself  had  often  assured  me 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter.  Upon  asking 
how  he  had  been  taught  the  art  of  a cognoscento 
so  very  suddenly,  he  assured  me  that  nothing  was 
more  easy.  The  whole  secret  consisted  in  a strict 
adherence  to  two  rules  : the  one  always  to  observe, 
that  the  picture  might  have  been  better  if  the 
painter  had  taken  more  pains ; and  the  other,  to 
praise  the  works  of  Pietro  Perugino.  ‘But/  says 
he,  ‘ as  I once  taught  you  how  to  be  an  author  in 
London,  I’ll  now  undertake  to  instruct  you  in 
the  art  of  picture-buying  at  Paris/ 

“ With  this  proposal  I very  readily  closed,  as 
it  was  living,  and  now  all  my  ambition  was  to 
live.  I went  therefore  to  his  lodgings,  improved 
my  dress  by  his  assistance,  and  after  some  time 
accompanied  him  to  auctions  of  pictures,  where 
the  English  gentry  were  expected  to  be  purchasers. 
I was  not  a little  surprised  at  his  intimacy  with 
people  of  the  best  fashion,  who  referred  themselves 


142 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


to  his  judgment  upon  every  picture  or  medal,  as 
an  unerring  standard  of  taste.  He  made  very 
good  use  of  my  assistance  upon  these  occasions  ; 
for  when  asked  his  opinion,  he  would  gravely  take 
me  aside  and  ask  mine,  shrug,  look  wise,  return, 
and  assure  the  company  that  he  could  give  no 
opinion  upon  an  affair  of  so  much  importance. 
Yet  there  was  sometimes  an  occasion  for  a more 
supported  assurance.  I remember  to  have  seen 
him,  after  giving  his  opinion  that  the  coloring  of 
a picture  was  not  mellow  enough,  very  deliberately 
take  a brush  with  brown  varnish,  that  was  acci- 
dentally lying  by,  and  rub  it  over  the  piece  with 
great  composure  before  all  the  company,  and  then 
ask  if  he  had  not  improved  the  tints. 

“ When  he  had  finished  his  commission  in  Paris, 
he  left  me  strongly  recommended  to  several  men 
of  distinction,  as  a person  very  proper  for  a trav- 
elling tutor  ; and  after  some  time  I was  employed 
in  that  capacity  by  a gentleman  who  brought  his 
ward  to  Paris,  in  order  to  set  him  forward  on  his 
tour  through  Europe.  I was  to  be  the  young 
gentleman’s  governor,  but  with  a proviso,  that  he 
should  always  be  permitted  to  govern  himself. 
My  pupil,  in  fact,  understood  the  art  of  guiding 
in  money  concerns  much  better  than  I.  He  was 
heir  to  a fortune  of  about  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds,  left  him  by  an  uncle  in  the  West  Indies ; 
and  his  guardians,  to  qualify  him  for  the  manage- 
ment of  it,  had  bound  him  apprentice  to  an  attor- 
ney. Thus  avarice  was  his  prevailing  passion  : 
all  his  questions  on  the  road  were,  how  money 
might  be  saved  ; which  was  the  least  expensive 
course  of  travel ; whether  anything  could  be 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


143 


bought  that  would  turn  to  account  when  dis- 
posed of  again  in  London.  Such  curiosities  on 
the  way  as  could  be  seen  for  nothing  he  was 
ready  enough  to  look  at ; but  if  the  sight  of  them 
was  to  be  paid  for,  he  usually  asserted  that  he  had 
been  told  they  were  not  worth  seeing.  He  never 
paid  a bill  that  he  would  not  observe  how  amaz- 
ingly expensive  travelling  was,  and  all  this  though 
he  was  not  yet  twenty-one.  When  arrived  at 
Leghorn,  as  we  took  a walk  to  look  at  the  port 
and  shipping,  he  inquired  the  expense  of  the  pas- 
sage by  sea  home  to  England.  This  he  was  in- 
formed was  but  a trifle  compared  to  his  returning 
by  land,  he  was  therefore  unable  to  withstand  the 
temptation  ; so  paying  me  the  small  part  of  my 
salary  that  was  due,  he  took  leave,  and  embarked 
with  only  one  attendant  for  London. 

“ I now  therefore  was  left  once  more  upon  the 
world  at  large ; but  then  it  was  a thing  I was  used 
to.  However,  my  skill  in  music  could  avail  me 
nothing  in  a country  where  every  peasant  was  a 
better  musician  than  I ; but  by  this  time  I had 
acquired  another  talent  which  answered  my  pur- 
pose as  well,  and  this  was  a skill  in  disputation. 
In  all  the  foreign  universities  and  convents  there 
are  upon  certain  days  philosophical  theses  main- 
tained against  every  adventitious  disputant:  for 
which,  if  the  champion  opposes  with  any  dexterity, 
he  can  claim  a gratuity  in  money,  a dinner,  and 
a bed  for  one  night.  In  this  manner  therefore  I 
fought  my  way  towards  England,  walked  along 
from  city  to  city,  examined  mankind  more  nearly, 
and,  if  I may  so  express  it,  saw  both  sides  of  the 
picture.  My  remarks,  however,  are  but  few ; I 


i44  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

found  that  monarchy  was  the  best  government  for 
the  poor  to  live  in,  and  commonwealths  for  the 
rich.  I found  that  riches  in  general  were  in  every 
country  another  name  for  freedom ; and  that  no 
man  is  so  fond  of  liberty  himself  as  not  to  be  desir- 
ous of  subjecting  the  will  of  some  individuals  in 
society  to  his  own. 

“ Upon  my  arrival  in  England,  I resolved  to 
pay  my  respects  first  to  you,  and  then  to  enlist  as 
a volunteer  in  the  first  expedition  that  was  going 
forward  ; but  on  my  journey  down  my  resolutions 
were  changed,  by  meeting  an  old  acquaintance, 
who  I found  belonged  to  a company  of  comedians 
that  were  going  to  make  a summer  campaign  in 
the  country.  The  company  seemed  not  much  to 
disapprove  of  me  for  an  associate.  They  all,  how- 
ever, apprised  me  of  the  importance  of  the  task  at 
which  I aimed  ; that  the  public  was  a many-headed 
monster,  and  that  only  such  as  had  very  good 
heads  could  please  it ; that  acting  was  not  to  be 
learnt  in  a day  ; and  that,  without  some  traditional 
shrugs  which  had  been  on  the  stage,  and  only  on 
the  stage,  these  hundred  years,  I could  never  pre- 
tend to  please.  The  next  difficulty  was  in  fitting 
me  with  parts,  as  almost  every  character  was  in 
keeping.  I was  driven  for  some  time  from  one 
character  to  another,  till  at  last  Horatio  was  fixed 
upon,  which  the  presence  of  the  present  company 
has  happily  hindered  me  from  acting.” 


CHAPTER  XXL 

The  short  continuance  of  Friendship  amongst 
the  Vicious,  which  is  coeval  only  with 
Mutual  Satisfaction. 

Y son’s  account  was  too  long  to  be  deliv- 
ered at  once ; the  first  part  of  it  was 
begun  that  night,  and  he  was  conclud- 
ing the  rest  after  dinner  the  next  day, 
when  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Thornhill’s  equipage 
at  the  door  seemed  to  make  a pause  in  the  general 
satisfaction.  The  butler,  who  was  now  become 
my  friend  in  the  family,  informed  me,  with  a whis- 
per, that  the  Squire  had  already  made  some  over- 
tures to  Miss  Wilmot,  and  that  her  aunt  and  uncle 
seemed  highly  to  approve  the  match.  Upon  Mr. 
Thornhill’s  entering,  he  seemed  at  seeing  my  son 
and  me  to  start  back;  but  I readily  imputed  that 
to  surprise  and  not  displeasure.  However,  upon 
our  advancing  to  salute  him,  he  returned  our  greet- 
ing with  the  most  apparent  candor;  and  after  a 
short  time,  his  presence  served  only  to  increase  the 
general  good  humor. 

After  tea  he  called  me  aside  to  inquire  after  my 
daughter ; but  upon  my  informing  him  that  my 
inquiry  was  unsuccessful,  he  seemed  greatly  sur- 
prised: adding,  that  he  had  been  since  frequently 
io 


146  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 

at  my  house,  in  order  to  comfort  the  rest  of  my 
family,  whom  he  left  perfectly  well.  He  then 
asked  if  I had  communicated  her  misfortune  to 
Miss  Wilmot  or  my  son ; and  upon  my  replying 
that  I had  not  told  them  as  yet,  he  greatly  approved 
my  prudence  and  precaution,  desiring  me  by  all 
means  to  keep  it  a secret : “ For  at  best,”  cried 
he,  “ it  is  but  divulging  one’s  own  infamy ; and 
perhaps  Miss  Livy  may  not  be  so  guilty  as  we  all 
imagine.”  We  were  here  interrupted  by  a servant, 
who  came  to  ask  the  Squire  in,  to  stand  up  at 
country  dances ; so  that  he  left  me  quite  pleased 
with  the  interest  he  seemed  to  take  in  my  concerns. 
His  addressed,  however,  to  Miss  Wilmot,  were  too 
obvious  to  be  mistaken ; and  yet  she  seemed  not 
perfectly  pleased,  but  bore  them  rather  in  compli- 
ance to  the  will  of  her  aunt  than  from  real  inclina- 
tion. I had  even  the  satisfaction  to  see  her  lavish 
some  kind  looks  upon  my  unfortunate  son,  which 
the  other  could  neither  extort  by  his  fortune  nor 
assiduity.  Mr.  Thornhill’s  seeming  composure, 
however,  not  a little  surprised  me ; we  had  now 
continued  here  a week  at  the  pressing  instances  of 
Mr.  Arnold ; but  each  day  the  more  tenderness 
Miss  Wilmot  showed  my  son,  Mr.  Thornhill’s 
friendship  seemed  proportionably  to  increase  for 
him. 

He  had  formerly  made  us  the  most  kind  assur- 
ances of  using  his  interest  to  serve  the  family ; but 
now  his  generosity  was  not  confined  to  promises 
alone.  The  morning  I designed  for  my  departure, 
Mr.  Thornhill  came  to  me,  with  looks  of  real  pleas- 
ure, to  inform  me  of  a piece  of  service  he  had  done 
for  his  friend  George.  This  was  nothing  less  than 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


147 


his  having  procured  him  an  ensign’s  commission 
in  one  of  the  regiments  that  was  going  to  the 
West  Indies,  for  which  he  had  promised  but  one 
hundred  pounds,  his  interest  having  been  sufficient 
to  get  an  abatement  of  the  other  two.  “ As  for 
this  trifling  piece  of  service,”  continued  the  young 
gentleman,  “ I desire  no  other  reward  but  the 
pleasure  of  having  served  my  friend  ; and  as  for 
the  hundred  pounds  to  be  paid,  if  you  are  unable 
to  raise  it  yourselves,  I will  advance  it,  and  you 
shall  repay  me  at  your  leisure.”  This  was  a favor 
we  wanted  words  to  express  our  sense  of ; I readily 
therefore  gave  my  bond  for  the  money,  and  testi- 
fied as  much  gratitude  as  if  I never  intended  to 

pay- 

George  was  to  depart  for  town  the  next  day,  to 
secure  his  commission,  in  pursuance  of  his  gener- 
ous patron’s  directions,  who  judged  it  highly  expe- 
dient to  use  dispatch,  lest  in  the  mean  time  another 
should  step  in  with  more  advantageous  proposals. 
The  next  morning,  therefore,  our  young  soldier 
was  early  prepared  for  his  departure,  and  seemed 
the  only  person  among  us  that  was  not  affected  by 
it.  Neither  the  fatigues  and  dangers  he  was  going 
to  encounter,  nor  the  friends  and  mistress,  for  Miss 
Wilmot  actually  loved  him,  he  was  leaving  behind, 
any  way  damped  his  spirits.  After  he  had  taken 
leave  of  the  rest  of  the  company,  I gave  him  all  I 
had,  my  blessing.  “ And  now,  my  boy,”  cried  I, 
“ thou  art  going  to  fight  for  thy  country,  remember 
how  thy  brave  grandfather  fought  for  his  sacred 
king,  when  loyalty  among  Britons  was  a virtue. 
Go,  my  boy,  and  imitate  him  in  all  but  his  misfor- 
tunes, if  it  was  a misfortune  to  die  with  Lord  Falk- 


148  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 

land.  Go,  my  boy,  and  if  you  fall,  though  distant, 
exposed,  and  unwept  by  those  that  love  you,  the 
most  precious  tears  are  those  with  which  heaven 
bedews  the  unburied  head  of  a soldier.” 

The  next  morning  I took  leave  of  the  good  fam- 
ily, that  had  been  kind  enough  to  entertain  me  so 
long,  not  without  several  expressions  of  gratitude 
to  Mr.  Thornhill  for  his  late  bounty.  I left  them 
in  the  enjoyment  of  all  that  happiness  which  afflu- 
ence and  good  breeding  procure,  and  returned  to- 
wards home,  despairing  of  ever  finding  my  daugh- 
ter more,  but  sending  a sigh  to  Heaven  to  spare  and 
forgive  her.  I was  now  come  within  about  twenty 
miles  of  home,  having  hired  an  horse  to  carry  me, 
as  I was  yet  but  weak,  and  comforted  myself  with 
the  hopes  of  soon  seeing  all  I held  dearest  upon 
earth.  But  the  night  coming  on,  I put  up  at  a 
little  public-house  by  the  roadside,  and  asked  for 
the  landlord’s  company  over  a pint  of  wine.  We 
sat  beside  his  kitchen  fire,  which  was  the  best  room 
in  the  house,  and  chatted  on  politics  and  the  news 
of  the  country.  We  happened,  among  other  top- 
ics, to  talk  of  young  Squire  Thornhill,  who,  the 
host  assured  me,  was  hated  as  much  as  his  uncle 
Sir  William,  who  sometimes  came  down  to  the 
country,  was  loved.  He  went  on  to  observe,  that 
he  made  it  his  whole  study  to  betray  the  daughters 
of  such  as  received  him  to  their  houses,  and  after 
a fortnight  or  three  weeks’  possession,  turned  them 
out  unrewarded  and  abandoned  to  the  world. 

As  we  continued  our  discourse  in  this  manner, 
his  wife,  who  had  been  out  to  get  change,  returned, 
and  perceiving  that  her  husband  was  enjoying  a 
pleasure  in  which  she  was  not  a sharer,  she  asked 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  149 

him.  in  an  angry  tone,  what  he  did  there  ; to  which 
he  only  replied  in  an  ironical  way,  by  drinking  her 
health.  “ Mr.  Symonds,”  cried  she,  “ you  use  me 
very  ill,  and  I’ll  bear  it  no  longer.  Here  three 
parts  of  the  business  is  left  for  me  to  do,  and  the 
fourth  left  unfinished ; while  you  do  nothing  but 
soak  with  the  guests  all  day  long ; whereas,  if  a 
spoonful  of  liquor  were  to  cure  me  of  a fever,  I 
never  touch  a drop.”  I now  found  what  she 
would  be  at,  and  immediately  poured  her  out  a 
glass,  which  she  received  with  a courtesy,  and 
drinking  towards  my  good  health,  “ Sir,”  resumed 
she,  “ it  is  not  so  much  for  the  value  of  the  liquor 
I am  angry,  but  one  cannot  help  it,  when  the 
house  is  going  out  of  the  windows.  If  the  cus- 
tomers or  guests  are  to  be  dunned  all  the  burthen 
lies  upon  my  back ; he ’d  as  lief  eat  that  glass  as 
budge  after  them  himself.  There  now  above  stairs, 
we  have  a young  woman  who  has  come  to  take  up 
her  lodgings  here,  and  I don’t  believe  she  has  got 
any  money  by  her  over-civility.  I am  certain  she 
is  very  slow  of  payment,  and  I wish  she  were  put 
in  mind  of  it.”  — “ What  signifies  minding  her  ? ” 
cried  the  host,  “ if  she  be  slow  she  is  sure.”  — “ I 
don’t  know  that,”  replied  the  wife;  “ but  I know 
that  I am  sure  she  has  been  here  a fortnhrht,  and 
we  have  not  yet  seen  the  cross  of  her  money.”  — 
“ I suppose,  my  dear,”  cried  he,  “ we  shall  have 
it  all  in  a lump.”  — a In  a lump  ! ” cried  the  other, 
“ I hope  we  may  get  it  any  way;  and  that  I am 
resolved  we  will  this  very  night,  or  out  she  tramps, 
bag  and  baggage.”  — “ Consider,  my  dear,”  cried 
the  husband,  “ she  is  a gentlewoman,  and  deserves 
more  respect.”  — “ As  for  the  matter  of  that,”  re- 


1 5o  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 

turned  the  hostess,  “ gentle  or  simple,  out  she 
shall  pack  with  a sussarara.  Gentry  may  be  good 
things  where  they  take ; but  for  my  part  I never 
saw  much  good  of  them  at  the  sign  of  the  Har- 
row.” 

Thus  saying,  she  ran  up  a narrow  flight  of  stairs 
that  went  from  the  kitchen  to  a room  overhead, 
and  I soon  perceived,  by  the  loudness  of  her  voice, 
and  the  bitterness  of  her  reproaches,  that  no  money 
was  to  be  had  from  her  lodger.  I could  hear  her 
remonstrances  very  distinctly  : “ Out  I say,  pack 
out  this  moment,  tramp  thou  infamous  strumpet, 
or  I ’ll  give  thee  a mark  thou  won’t  be  the  better 
for  these  three  months.  What ! you  trumpery,  to 
come  and  take  up  an  honest  house  without  cross 
or  coin  to  bless  yourself  with ! come  along  I 
say.” — “O  dear  madam,”  cried  the  stranger, 
“ pity  me,  pity  a poor  abandoned  creature  for  one 
night,  and  death  will  soon  do  the  rest.”  I in- 
stantly knew  the  voice  of  my  poor  ruined  child 
Olivia.  I flew  to  her  rescue,  while  the  woman  was 
dragging  her  along  by  her  hair,  and  I caught  the 
dear  forlorn  wretch  in  my  arms.  “ Welcome, 
any  way,  welcome,  my  dearest  lost  one,  my  treas- 
ure, to  your  poor  old  father’s  bosom.  Though  the 
vicious  forsake  thee,  there  is  yet  one  in  the  world 
that  will  never  forsake  thee ; though  thou  hadst 
ten  thousand  crimes  to  answer  for,  he  will  forget 
them  all.”  — “Omv  own  dear,”  — for  minutes 
she  could  no  more, — “ my  own  dearest  good  papa! 
Could  angels  be  kinder ! How  do  I deserve  so 
much  ! The  villain,  I hate  him  ; and  myself,  to  be 
a reproach  to  such  goodness.  You  can’t  forgive 
. me.  I know  you  cannot.”  — “ Yes,  my  child, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  i5I 

from  my  heart  I do  forgive  thee ! Only  repent, 
and  we  both  shall  yet  be  happy.  We  shall  sec 
many  pleasant  days  yet,  my  Olivia!” — “Ah! 
never,  sir,  never.  The  rest  of  my  wretched  life 
must  be  infamy  abroad  and  shame  at  home.  But, 
alas  ! papa,  you  look  much  paler  than  you  used  to 
do.  Could  such  a thing  as  I am  give  you  so 
much  uneasiness'?  Surely  you  have  too  much 
wisdom  to  take  the  miseries  of  my  guilt  upon 
yourself.”  — “Our  wisdom,  young  woman,”  re- 
plied I,  — “ Ah,  why  so  cold  a name,  papa  ? ” cried 
she.  “ This  is  the  first  time  you  ever  called  me 
by  so  cold  a name.”  — “I  ask  pardon,  my  dar- 
ling,” returned  I ; “ but  I was  going  to  observe, 
that  wisdom  makes  but  a slow  defence  against 
trouble,  though  at  last  a sure  one.” 

The  landlady  now  returned  to  know  if  we  did 
not  choose  a more  genteel  apartment ; to  which  as- 
senting, we  were  shown  a room  where  we  could 
converse  more  freely.  After  we  had  talked  our- 
selves into  some  degree  of  tranquillity,  I could  not 
avoid  desiring  some  account  of  the  gradations  that 
led  to  her  present  Avretched  situation. 

“ That  villain,  Sir,”  said  she,  “ from  the  first 
day  of  our  meeting  made  me  honorable  though 
private  proposals.”  — “ Villain,  indeed,”  cried  I ; 
“ and  yet  it  in  some  measure  surprises  me,  how  a 
person  of  Mr.  Burcheirs  good  sense  and  seeming 
honor  could  be  guilty  of  such  deliberate  baseness, 
and  thus  step  into  a family  to  undo  it.” 

“ My  dear  papa,”  returned  my  daughter,  “ you 
labor  under  a strange  mistake.  Mr.  Bu rehell  never 
attempted  to  deceive  me ; instead  of  that  he  took 
every  opportunity  of  privately  admonishing  me 


1 52  TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 

against  the  artifices  of  Mr.  Thornhill,  who  I now 
find  was  even  worse  than  he  represented  him.”  — 
“ Mr.  Thornhill ! ” interrupted  I,  “ can  it  be?  ” — 
“ Yes,  Sir,”  returned  she,  “ it  was  Mr.  Thornhill 
who  seduced  me,  who  employed  the  two  ladies,  as 
he  called  them,  but  who  in  fact  were  abandoned 
women  of  the  town,  without  breeding  or  pity,  to 
decoy  us  up  to  London.  Their  artifices,  you  may 
remember,  would  have  certainly  succeeded,  but  for 
Mr.  Burchell’s  letter,  who  directed  those  reproaches 
at  them,  which  we  all  applied  to  ourselves.  How 
he  came  to  have  so  much  influence  as  to  defeat 
their  intentions  still  remains  a secret  to  me ; but  I 
am  convinced  he  was  ever  our  warmest,  sincerest 
friend.” 

“ You  amaze  me,  my  dear,”  cried  I ; “ but  now 
I find  my  first  suspicions  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  base- 
ness were  too  well  grounded  : but  he  can  triumph 
in  security ; for  he  is  rich,  and  we  are  poor.  But 
tell  me,  my  child,  sure  it  was  no  small  temptation 
that  could  thus  obliterate  all  the  impressions  of 
such  an  education,  and  so  virtuous  a disposition 
as  thine  ? ” 

“ Indeed,  Sir,”  replied  she,  “ he  owes  all  his  tri- 
umph to  the  desire  I had  of  making  him,  and  not 
myself,  happy.  I knew  that  the  ceremony  of  our 
marriage,  which  was  privately  performed  by  a 
Popish  priest,  was  no  way  binding,  and  that  I 
had  nothing  to  trust  to  but  his  honor.”  — “ What ! ” 
interrupted  I,  “ and  were  you  indeed  married  by  a 
priest,  and  in  orders  ? ” — “ Indeed,  Sir,  we  were,” 
replied  she,  “ though  we  were  both  sworn  to  con- 
ceal his  name.”  — “ Why  then,  my  child,  come  to 
my  arms  again  ; and  now  you  are  a thousand  times 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  153 

more  welcome  than  before  ; for  you  are  now  his 
wife  to  all  intents  and  purposes ; nor  can  all  the 
laws  of  man,  though  written  upon  tables  of  ada- 
mant, lessen  the  force  of  that  sacred  connection.' ” 

“Alas!  papa/’  replied  she,  “you  are  but  little 
acquainted  with  his  villanies ; he  has  been  mar- 
ried already  by  the  same  priest  to  six  or  eight 
wives  more,  whom,  like  me,  he  has  deceived  and 
abandoned.” 

“ Has  he  so  1 ” cried  I,  “ then  we  must  hang 
the  priest,  and  you  shall  inform  against  him  to- 
morrow.”— “ But,  Sir,”  returned  she,  “will  that 
be  right,  when  I am  sworn  to  secrecy  ? ” — “ My 
dear,”  I replied,  “ if  you  have  made  such  a prom- 
ise, I cannot,  nor  will  I tempt  you  to  break  it. 
Even  though  it  may  benefit  the  public,  you  must 
not  inform  against  him.  In  all  human  institu- 
tions a smaller  evil  is  allowed  to  procure  a greater 
good : as  in  politics,  a province  may  be  given 
away  to  secure  a kingdom  ; in  medicine,  a limb 
may  be  lopped  off  to  preserve  the  body.  But  in 
religion,  the  law  is  written  and  inflexible,  never  to 
do  evil.  And  this  law,  my  child,  is  right ; for 
otherwise,  if  we  commit  a smaller  evil  to  procure 
a greater  good,  certain  guilt  would  be  thus  in- 
curred, in  expectation  of  contingent  advantage. 
And  though  the  advantage  should  certainly  follow, 
yet  the  interval  between  commission  and  advan- 
tage, which  is  allowed  to  be  guilty,  may  be  that 
in  which  we  are  called  away  to  answer  for  the 
things  we  have  done,  and  the  volume  of  human 
actions  is  closed  forever.  But  I interrupt  you,  my 
dear,  go  on.” 

“ The  very  next  morning,”  continued  she,  “ I 


i54  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

found  what  little  expectations  I was  to  have  from 
his  sincerity.  That  very  morning  he  introduced 
me  to  two  unhappy  women  more,  whom,  like  me, 
he  had  deceived,  but  who  lived  in  contented  pros- 
titution. I loved  him  too  tenderly  to  bear  such 
rivals  in  his  affections,  and  strove  to  forget  my 
infamy  in  a tumult  of  pleasures.  With  this  view, 
I danced,  dressed,  and  talked  ; but  still  was  un- 
happy. The  gentlemen  who  visited  there  told  me 
every  moment  of  the  power  of  my  charms,  and 
this  only  contributed  to  increase  my  melancholy, 
as  I had  thrown  all  their  power  quite  away. 
Thus,  each  day  I grew  more  pensive,  and  he  more 
insolent,  till  at  last  the  monster  had  the  assurance 
to  offer  me  to  a young  baronet  of  his  acquaintance. 
Need  I describe,  Sir,  how  his  ingratitude  stung 
me  ? My  answer  to  this  proposal  was  almost 
madness.  I desired  to  part.  As  I was  going  he 
offered  me  a purse,  but  I flung  it  at  him  with 
indignation,  and  burst  from  him  in  a rage,  that 
for  a while  kept  me  insensible  of  the  miseries  of 
my  situation.  But  I soon  looked  round  me,  and 
saw  myself  a vile,  abject,  guilty  thing,  without  one 
friend  in  the  world  to  apply  to. 

“ Just  in  that  interval  a stage-coach  happening 
to  pass  by,  I took  a place,  it  being  my  only  aim 
to  be  driven  at  a distance  from  a wretch  I despised 
and  detested.  I was  set  down  here,  where,  since 
my  arrival,  my  own  anxiety  and  this  woman’s 
unkindness  have  been  my  only  companions.  The 
hours  of  pleasure  that  I have  passed  with  my 
mamma  and  sister,  now  grow  painful  to  me. 
Their  sorrows  are  much ; but  mine  are  greater 
than  theirs;  for  mine  are  mixed  w»th  guilt  and 
infamy.” 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 155 


“ Have  patience,  my  child/’  cried  I,  “ and  I 
hope  things  will  yet  be  better.  Take  some  repose 
to-night,  and  to-morrow  I ’ll  carry  you  home  to 
your  mother  and  the  rest  of  the  family,  from 
whom  you  will  receive  a kind  reception.  Poor 
woman  ! this  has  gone  to  her  heart : but  she  loves 
you  still,  Olivia,  and  will  forget  it.” 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Offences  are  easily  pardoned  where  there 
is  Love  at  bottom. 

HE  next  morning  I took  my  daughter 
behind  me,  and  set  out  on  my  return 
home.  As  we  travelled  along,  I strove 
by  every  persuasion  to  calm  her  sor- 
rows and  fears,  and  to  arm  her  with  resolution  to 
bear  the  presence  of  her  offended  mother.  I took 
every  opportunity,  from  the  prospect  of  a fine 
country,  through  which  we  passed,  to  observe  how 
much  kinder  Heaven  was  to  us,  than  we  to  each 
other,  and  that  the  misfortunes  of  nature’s  mak- 
ing wrere  very  few.  I assured  her  that  she  should 
never  perceive  any  change  in  my  affections,  and 
that  during  my  life,  which  yet  might  be  long,  she 
might  depend  upon  a guardian  and  an  instructor. 
I armed  her  against  ths  censures  of  the  wrorld, 
showed  her  that  books  were  sweet  unreproaching 
companions  to  the  miserable,  and  that  if  they 
could  not  bring  us  to  enjoy  life,  they  would  at 
least  teach  us  to  endure  it. 

The  hired  horse  that  we  rode  was  to  be  put  up 
that  night  at  an  inn  by  the  way,  within  about  five 
miles  from  my  house,  and  as  I was  willing  to  pre- 
pare my  family  for  my  daughter’s  reception,  I de- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


J57 

termined  to  leave  her  that  night  at  the  inn,  and  to 
return  for  her,  accompanied  by  my  daughter  So- 
phia, early  the  next  morning.  It  was  night  before 
we  reached  our  appointed  stage : however,  after 
seeing  her  provided  with  a decent  apartment,  and 
having  ordered  the  hostess  to  prepare  proper  re- 
freshments, I kissed  her,  and  proceeded  towards 
home.  And  now  my  heart  caught  new  sensations 
of  pleasure  the  nearer  I approached  that  peace- 
ful mansion.  As  a bird  that  had  been  frighted 
from  its  nest,  my  affections  outwent  my  haste,  and 
hovered  round  my  little  fireside  with  all  the  rap- 
ture of  expectation.  I called  up  the  many  fond 
things  I had  to  say,  and  anticipated  the  welcome 
I was  to  receive.  I already  felt  my  wife’s  tender 
embrace,  and  smiled  at  the  joy  of  my  little  ones. 
As  I walked  but  slowly,  the  night  waned  apace. 
The  laborers  of  the  day  were  all  retired  to  rest ; 
the  lights  were  out  in  every  cottage  ; no  sounds 
were  heard  but  of  the  shrilling  cock,  and  the  deep- 
mouthed  wateh-dog  at  hollow  distance.  I ap- 
proached my  abode  of  pleasure,  and  before  I was 
within  a furlong  of  the  place,  our  honest  mastiff 
came  running  to  welcome  me. 

It  was  now  near  midnight  that  I came  to  knock 
at  my  door : all  was  still  and  silent : my  heart 
dilated  with  unutterable  happiness,  when,  to  my 
amazement,  I saw  the  house  bursting  out  in  a 
blaze  of  fire,  and  every  aperture  red  with  confla- 
gration ! I gave  a loud  convulsive  outcry,  and 
fell  upon  the  pavement  insensible.  This  alarmed 
my  son,  who  had  till  this  been  asleep,  and  he, 
perceiving  the  flames,  instantly  waked  my  wife  and 
daughter,  and  all  running  out  naked  and  wild 


I5S  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


with  apprehension,  recalled  me  to  life  with ' their 
anguish.  But  it  was  only  to  objects  of  new  ter- 
ror ; for  the  flames  had  by  this  time  caught  the 
roof  of  our  dwelling,  part  after  part  continuing  to 
fall  in,  while  the  family  stood  with  silent  agony 
looking  on  as  if  they  enjoyed  the  blaze.  I gazed 
upon  them  and  upon  it  by  turns,  and  then  looked 
round  me  for  my  two  little  ones ; but  they  were 
not  to  be  seen.  O misery ! “ Where,”  cried  I, 

“ where  are  my  little  ones  ? ” — “ They  are  burnt 
to  death  in  the  flames,”  says  my  wife  calmly, 
‘‘and  I will  die  with  them.”  That  moment  I 
heard  the  cry  of  the  babes  within,  who  were  just 
awaked  by  the  fire,  and  nothing  could  have  stopped 
me.  “ Where,  where  are  my  children,”  cried 
I,  rushing  through  the  flames,  and  bursting  the 
door  of  the  chamber  in  which  they  were  con- 
fined; “Where  are  my  little  ones?”  — “Here, 
dear  papa,  here  we  are,”  cried  they  together,  while 
the  flames  were  just  catching  the  bed  where  they 
lay.  I caught  them  both  in  my  arms,  and  snatch- 
ing them  through  the  fire  as  fast  as  possible,  while, 
just  as  I was  got  out,  the  roof  sunk  in.  “ Now,” 
cried  I,  holding  up  my  children,  “ now  let  the 
flames  burn  on,  and  all  my  possessions  perish. 
Here  they  are,  I have  saved  my  treasure.  Here, 
my  dearest,  here  are  our  treasures,  and  we  shall 
yet  be  happy.”  We  kissed  our  little  darlings  a 
thousand  times,  they  clasped  us  round  the  neck, 
and  seemed  to  share  our  transports,  while  their 
mother  laughed  and  wept  by  turns. 

I now  stood  a calm  spectator  of  the  flames,  and 
after  some  time  began  to  perceive  that  my  arm  to 
the  shoulder  was  scorched  in  a terrible  manner. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


1 59 

It  was  therefore  out  of  my  power  to  give  my  son 
any  assistance,  either  in  attempting  to  save  our 
goods,  or  preventing  the  flames  spreading  to  our 
corn.  By  this  time  the  neighbors  were  alarmed, 
and  came  running  to  our  assistance ; but  all  they 
could  do  was  to  stand,  like  us,  spectators  of  the  ca- 
lamity. My  goods,  among  which  were  the  notes  I 
had  reserved  for  my  daughters’  fortunes,  were  en- 
tirely consumed,  except  a box  with  some  papers 
that,  stood  in  the  kitchen,  and  two  or  three  things 
more  of  little  consequence,  which  my  son  brought 
away  in  the  beginning.  The  neighbors  contrib- 
uted, however,  what  they  could  to  lighten  our  dis- 
tress. They  brought  us  clothes,  and  furnished  one 
of  our  out-houses  with  kitchen  utensils ; so  that 
by  daylight  we  had  another,  though  a wretched 
dwelling,  to  retire  to.  My  honest  next  neighbor 
and  his  children  were  not  the  least  assiduous  in 
providing  us  with  everything  necessary,  and  offer- 
ing whatever  consolation  untutored  benevolence 
could  suggest. 

When  the  fears  of  my  family  had  subsided,  cu- 
riosity to  know  the  cause  of  my  long  stay  began 
to  take  place  : having  therefore  informed  them  of 
every  particular,  I proceeded  to  prepare  them  for 
the  reception  of  our  lost  one.  and  though  we  had 
nothing  but  wretchedness  now  to  impart,  I was 
willing  to  procure  her  a welcome  to  what  we  had. 
This  task  would  have  been  more  difficult  but  for 
our  recent  calamity,  which  had  humbled  my  wife’s 
pride,  and  blunted  it  by  more  poignant  afflictions. 
Being  unable  to  go  for  my  poor  child  myself,  as 
my  arm  grew  very  painful,  I sent  my  son  and 
daughter,  who  soon  returned,  supporting  the 


1 60  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


wretched  delinquent,  who  had  not  the  courage  to 
look  up  at  her  mother,  whom  no  instructions  of 
mine  could  persuade  to  a perfect  reconciliation ; 
for  women  have  a much  stronger  sense  of  female 
error  than  men.  “ Ah,  madam/’  cried  her  moth- 
er, “ this  is  but  a poor  place  you  are  come  to  after 
so  much  finery.  My  daughter  Sophy  and  I can 
afford  but  little  entertainment  to  persons  who  have 
kept  company  only  with  people  of  distinction. 
Yes,  Miss  Livy,  your  poor  father  and  I have  suf- 
fered very  much  of  late ; but  I hope  Heaven  will 
forgive  you.”  During  this  reception  the  unhappy 
victim  stood  pale  and  trembling,  unable  to  weep 
or  to  reply  ; but  I could  not  continue  a silent 
spectator  of  her  distress,  wherefore,  assuming  a de- 
gree of  severity  in  my  voice  and  manner,  which 
was  ever  followed  with  instant  submission,  — “ I en- 
treat, woman,  that  my  words  may  be  now  marked 
once  for  all  : I have  here  brought  you  back  a poor 
deluded  wanderer ; her  return  to  duty  demands 
the  revival  of  our  tenderness.  The  real  hardships 
of  life  are  now  coming  fast  upon  us,  let  us  not 
therefore  increase  them  by  dissension  among  each 
other.  If  we  live  harmoniously  together  we  may 
yet  be  contented,  as  there  are  enough  of  us  to  shut 
out  the  censuring  world  and  keep  each  other  in 
countenance.  The  kindness  of  Heaven  is  prom- 
ised to  the  penitent,  and  let  ours  be  directed  by 
the  example.  Heaven,  we  are  assured,  is  much 
more  pleased  to  view  a repentant  sinner  than 
ninety-nine  persons  who  have  supported  a course 
of  undeviating  rectitude.  And  this  is  right : for 
that  single  effort  by  which  we  stop  short  in  the 
down-hill  path  to  perdition,  is  itself  a greater  ex- 
ertion of  virtue  than  an  hundred  acts  of  justice.” 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


None  but  the  Guilty  can  be  long  and  com- 
pletely MISERABLE. 

OME  assiduity  was  now  required  to 
make  our  present  abode  as  convenient 
as  possible,  and  we  were  soon  again 
qualified  to  enjoy  our  former  serenity. 
Being  disabled  myself  from  assisting  my  son  in 
our  usual  occupations,  I read  to  my  family  from 
the  few  books  that  were  saved,  and  particularly 
from  such  as,  by  amusing  the  imagination,  con- 
tributed to  ease  the  heart.  Our  good  neighbors 
too  came  every  day  with  the  kindest  condolence, 
and  fixed  a time  in  which  they  were  all  to  assist 
at  repairing  my  former  dwelling.  Honest  Earmer 
Williams  was  not  last  among  these  visitors ; but 
heartily  offered  his  friendship.  He  would  even 
have  renewed  his  addresses  to  my  daughter  ; but 
she  rejected  him  in  such  a manner  as  totally  re- 
pressed his  future  solicitations.  Her  grief  seemed 
formed  for  continuing,  and  she  was  the  only  person 
of  our  little  society  that  a week  did  not  restore  to 
cheerfulness.  She  now  lost  that  unblushing  inno- 
cence which  once  taught  her  to  respect  herself,  and 
to  seek  pleasure  by  pleasing.  Anxiety  now  had 
taken  strong  possession  of  her  mind,  her  beauty 


1 62  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


began  to  be  impaired  with  her  constitution,  and 
neglect  still  more  contributed  to  diminish  it. 
Every  tender  epithet  bestowed  on  her  sister  brought 
a pang  to  her  heart  and  a tear  to  her  eye ; and  as 
one  vice,  though  cured,  ever  plants  others  where  it 
has  been,  so  her  former  guilt,  though  driven  out 
by  repentance,  left  jealousy  and  envy  behind.  I 
strove  a thousand  ways  to  lessen  her  care,  and 
even  forgot  my  own  pain  in  a concern  for  hers, 
collecting  such  amusing  passages  of  history  as  a 
strong  memory  and  some  reading  could  suggest. 
“ Our  happiness,  my  dear/5  I would  say,  “ is  in 
the  power  of  One  who  can  bring  it  about  in  a thou- 
sand unforeseen  ways  that  mock  our  foresight.  If 
example  be  necessary  to  prove  this,  I hi  give  you 
a story,  my  child,  told  us  by  a grave,  though  some- 
times a romancing,  historian. 

“ Matilda  was  married  very  young  to  a Neapol- 
itan nobleman  of  the  first  quality  and  found  her- 
self a widow  and  a mother  at  the  age  of  fifteen. 
As  she  stood  one  day  caressing  her  infant  son  in 
the  open  window  of  an  apartment,  which  hung 
over  the  river  Volturna,  the  child  with  a sudden 
spring  leaped  from  her  arms  into  the  flood  below, 
and  disappeared  in  a moment.  The  mother, 
struck  with  instant  surprise,  and  making  an  effort 
to  save  him,  plunged  in  after;  but  far  from  being 
able  to  assist  the  infant,  she  herself  with  great  dif- 
ficulty escaped  to  the  opposite  shore,  just  when 
some  French  soldiers  w^ere  plundering  the  country 
on  that  side,  who  immediately  made  her  their 
prisoner. 

“ As  the  war  was  then  carried  on  between  the 
French  and  Italians  with  the  utmost  inhumanity, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  163 

they  were  going  at  once  to  perpetrate  those  two 
extremes  suggested  by  appetite  and  cruelty.  This 
base  resolution  however  was  opposed  by  a young 
officer,  who,  though  their  retreat  required  the  ut- 
most expedition,  placed  her  behind  him,  and 
brought  her  in  safety  to  his  native  city.  Her 
beauty  at  first  caught  his  eye,  her  merit  soon  after 
his  heart.  Thev  were  married  : he  rose  to  the 
highest  posts ; they  lived  long  together  and  were 
happy.  But  the  felicity  of  a soldier  can  never  be 
called  permanent : after  an  interval  of  several 
years,  the  troops  which  he  commanded  having  met 
with  a repulse,  he  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  in 
the  city  where  he  had  lived  with  his  wife.  Here 
they  suffered  a siege,  and  the  city  at  length  was 
taken.  Few  histories  can  produce  more  various 
instances  of  cruelty,  than  those  which  the  French 
and  Italians  at  that  time  exercised  upon  each 
other.  It  was  resolved  by  the  victors,  upon  this 
occasion,  to  put  all  the  French  prisoners  to  death ; 
but  particularly  the  husband  of  the  unfortunate 
Matilda,  as  he  was  principally  instrumental  in  pro- 
tracting the  siege.  Their  determinations  were  in 
general  executed  almost  as  soon  as  resolved  upon. 
The  captive  soldier  was  led  forth,  and  the  execu- 
tioner with  his  sword  stood  ready,  while  the  spec- 
tators in  gloomy  silence  awaited  the  fatal  blow, 
which  was  only  suspended  till  the  general,  who  pre- 
sided as  judge,  should  give  the  signal.  It  was  in 
this  interval  of  anguish  and  expectation,  that  Ma- 
tilda came  to  take  her  last  farewell  of  her  husband 
and  deliverer,  deploring  her  wretched  situation, 
and  the  cruelty  of  fate,  that  had  saved  her  from 
perishing  by  a premature  death  in  the  river  Yol- 


1 64  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

\ 

turna,  to  be  the  spectator  of  still  greater  calamities. 
The  general,  who  was  a young  man,  was  struck 
with  surprise  at  her  beauty,  and  pity  at  her  distress  ; 
but  with  still  stronger  emotions  when  he  heard  her 
mention  her  former  dangers.  He  was  her  son, 
the  infant  for  whom  she  had  encountered  so  much 
danger.  He  acknowledged  her  at  once  as  his 
mother,  and  fell  at  her  feet.  The  rest  may  be 
easily  supposed  : the  captive  was  set  free,  and  all 
the  happiness  that  love,  friendship,  and  duty  could 
confer  on  each,  were  united.” 

In  this  manner  I would  attempt  to  amuse  my 
daughter ; but  she  listened  with  divided  attention  : 
for  her  own  misfortunes  engrossed  all  the  pity  she 
once  had  for  those  of  another,  and  nothing  gave 
her  ease.  In  company  she  dreaded  contempt ; and 
in  solitude  she  only  found  anxiety.  Such  was  the 
color  of  her  wretchedness,  when  we  received  cer- 
tain information,  that  Mr.  Thornhill  was  going  to 
be  married  to  Miss  Wilmot ; for  whom  I always 
suspected  he  had  a real  passion,  though  he  took 
every  opportunity  before  me  to  express  his  con- 
tempt both  of  her  person  and  fortune.  This  news 
only  served  to  increase  poor  Olivia’s  affliction ; 
such  a flagrant  breach  of  fidelity  was  more  than 
her  courage  could  support.  I was  resolved,  how- 
ever, to  get  more  certain  information,  and  to  de- 
feat if  possible  the  completion  of  his  designs,  by 
sending  my  son  to  old  Mr.  Wilmot’s,  with  instruc- 
tions to  know  the  truth  of  the  report,  and  to  deliver 
Miss  Wilmot  a letter,  intimating  Mr.  ThornhiU’s 
conduct  in  my  family.  My  son  went,  in  pursu- 
ance of  my  directions,  and  in  three  days  returned, 
assuring  us  of  the  truth  of  the  account ; but  that 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  165 

he  had  found  it  impossible  to  deliver  the  letter, 
which  he  was  therefore  obliged  to  leave,  as  Mr. 
Thornhill  and  Miss  Wilmot  were  visiting  round 
the  country.  They  were  to  be  married,  he  said, 
in  a few  days,  having  appeared  together  at  church 
the  Sunday  before  he  was  there,  in  great  splendor, 
the  bride  attended  by  six  young  ladies,  and  he  by 
as  many  gentlemen.  Their  approaching  nuptials 
filled  the  whole  country  with  rejoicing,  and  they 
usually  rode  out  together  in  the  grandest  equipage 
that  had  been  seen  in  the  country  for  many  years. 
All  the  friends  of  both  families,  he  said,  were  there, 
particularly  the  Squire’s  uncle,  Sir  William  Thorn- 
hill, who  bore  so  good  a character.  He  added, 
that  nothing  but  mirth  and  feasting  were  going 
forward;  that  all  the  country  praised  the  young 
bride’s  beauty,  and  the  bridegroom’s  fine  person, 
and  that  they  were  immensely  fond  of  each  other; 
concluding,  that  he  could  not  help  thinking  Mr. 
Thornhill  one  of  the  most  happy  men  in  the 
world. 

“ Why,  let  him  if  he  can,”  returned  I : “ but,  my 
son,  observe  this  bed  of  straw  and  unsheltering 
roof;  those  mouldering  walls  and  humid  floor;  my 
Avretched  body  thus  disabled  by  fire,  and  my  chil- 
dren weeping  round  me  for  bread  : you  have  come 
home,  my  child,  to  all  this,  yet  here,  even  here, 
you  see  a man  that  would  not  for  a thousand 
worlds  exchange  situations.  O,  my  children,  if 
you  could  but  learn  to  commune  with  your  own 
hearts,  and  know  what  noble  company  you  can 
make  them,  you  would  little  regard  the  elegance 
and  splendor  of  the  worthless.  Almost  all  men 
have  been  taught  to  call  life  a passage,  and  them- 


1 66  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


selves  the  travellers.  The  similitude  still  may  be 
improved  when  we  observe  that  the  good  are  joyful 
and  serene,  like  travellers  that  are  going  towards 
home;  the  wicked  but  by  intervals  happy,  like 
travellers  that  are  going  into  exile.” 

My  compassion  for  my  poor  daughter,  over- 
powered by  this  new  disaster,  interrupted  what  I 
had  farther  to  observe.  I bade  her  mother  support 
her,  and  after  a short  time  she  recovered.  She  ap- 
peared from  that  time  more  calm,  and  I imagined 
had  gained  a new  degree  of  resolution  : but  ap- 
pearances deceived  me ; for  her  tranquillity  was 
the  languor  of  overwrought  resentment.  A supply 
of  provisions,  charitably  sent  us  by  my  kind  parish- 
ioners, seemed  to  diffuse  new  cheerfulness  amongst 
the  rest  of  the  family,  nor  was  I displeased  at  see- 
ing them  once  more  sprightly  and  at  ease.  It 
would  have  been  unjust  to  damp  their  satisfactions, 
merelv  to  condole  with  resolute  melancholv,  or  to 
burthen  them  with  a sadness  they  did  not  feel. 
Thus  once  more  the  tale  went  round,  and  the  song 
was  demanded,  and  cheerfulness  condescended  'to 
hover  round  our  little  habitation. 


CHAPTER  XX I Y. 


Fresh  Calamities. 

HE  next  morning  the  sun  arose  with  pe- 
culiar warmth  for  the  season  ; so  that 
we  agreed  to  breakfast  together  on  the 
honeysuckle  bank  : where,  while  we  sat, 
my  youngest  daughter,  at  my  request,  joined  her 
voice  to  the  concert  on  the  trees  about  us.  It  was 
in  this  place  my  poor  Olivia  first  met  her  seducer, 
and  every  object  served  to  recall  her  sadness.  But 
that  melancholy  which  is  excited  by  objects  of 
pleasure,  or  inspired  by  sounds  of  harmony,  soothes 
the  heart  instead  of  corroding  it.  Her  mother,  too, 
upon  this  occasion,  felt  a pleasing  distress,  and  wept, 
and  loved  her  daughter  as  before.  “ Do,  my  pretty 
Olivia,”  cried  she,  “ let  us  have  that  little  melan- 
choly air  your  papa  was  so  fond  of ; your  sister 
Sophy  has  already  obliged  us.  Do,  child,  it  will 
please  your  old  father.”  She  complied  in  a man- 
ner so  exquisitely  pathetic,  as  moved  me. 

/ 

When  lovely  Woman  stoops  to  folly, 

And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 

What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 

A ud  wring  his  bosom  — is  to  die. 


1 68  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


As  she  was  concluding  the  last  stanza,  to  which 
an  interruption  in  her  voice  fVom  sorrow  gave  pe- 
culiar softness,  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Thornhill’s 
equipage  at  a distance  alarmed  us  all,  but  particu- 
larly increased  the  uneasiness  of  my  eldest  daugh- 
ter, who,  desirous  of  shunning  her  betrayer,  re- 
turned to  the  house  with  her  sister.  In  a few  min- 
utes he  was  alighted  from  his  chariot,  and  making 
up  to  the  place  where  I was  still  sitting,  inquired 
after  my  health  with  his  usual  air  of  familiarity. 
“ Sir,”  replied  I,  “ your  present  assurance  only 
serves  to  aggravate  the  baseness  of  your  character ; 
and  there  was  a time  when  I would  have  chastised 
your  insolence,  for  presuming  thus  to  appear  be- 
fore me.  But  now  you  are  safe  ; for  age  has  cooled 
my  passions,  and  my  calling  restrains  them.” 

“ I vow,  my  dear  Sir,”  returned  he,  “ I am 
amazed  at  all  this ; nor  can  I understand  what  it 
means!  I hope  you  don’t  think  your  daughter’s 
late  excursion  with  me  had  anything  criminal  in 
it.” 

“ Go,”  cried  I,  “ thou  art  a wretch,  a poor  piti- 
ful wretch,  and  every  way  a liar;  but  your  mean- 
ness secures  you  from  my  anger.  Yet,  Sir,  I am 
descended  from  a family  that  would  not  have  borne 
this  ! And  so,  thou  vile  thing,  to  gratify  a momen- 
tary passion,  thou  hast  made  one  poor  creature 
wretched  for  life,  and  polluted  a family  that  had 
nothing  but  honor  for  their  portion.” 

“ If  she  or  you,”  returned  he,  “ are  resolved  to 
be  miserable,  I cannot  help  it.  But  you  may  still 
be  happy ; and  whatever  opinion  you  may  have 
formed  of  me,  you  shall  ever  find  me  ready  to  con- 
tribute to  it.  We  can  marry  her  to  another  in  a 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  169 

short  time,  and  what  is  more,  she  may  keep  her 
lover  beside  ; for  I protest  I shall  ever  continue  to 
have  a true  regard  for  her.” 

I found  all  my  passions  alarmed  at  this  new  de- 
grading proposal ; for  though  the  mind  may  often 
be  calm  under  great  injuries,  little  villany  can  at 
any  time  get  within  the  soul,  and  sting  it  into  rage. 
— “ Avoid  my  sight,  thou  reptile,”  cried  I,  “ nor 
continue  to  insult  me  with  thy  presence.  Were 
my  brave  son  at  home,  he  would  not  suffer  this ; 
but  I am  old  and  disabled,  and  every  way  un- 
done.” 

“ I find,”  cried  he,  “ you  are  bent  upon  obliging 
me  to  talk  in  a harsher  manner  than  I intended. 
But  as  I have  shown  you  what  may  be  hoped  from 
my  friendship,  it  may  .not  be  improper  to  repre- 
sent what  may  be  the  consequences  of  my  resent- 
ment. My  attorney,  to  whom  your  late  bond  has 
been  transferred,  threatens  hard,  nor  do  I know 
how  to  prevent  the  course  of  justice,  except  by 
paying  the  money  myself,  which,  as  I have  been 
at  some  expenses  lately,  previous  to  my  intended 
marriage,  is  not  so  easy  to  be  done.  And  then 
my  steward  talks  of  “ driving  ” for  the  rent : it  is 
certain  he  knows  his  duty  ; for  I never  trouble  my- 
self with  affairs  of  that  nature.  Yet  still  I could 
wish  to  serve  you,  and  even  to  have  you  and  your 
daughter  present  at  my  marriage,  which  is  shortly 
to  be  solemnized  with  Miss  Wilmot ; it  is  even  the 
request  of  my  charming  Arabella  herself,  whom  I 
hope  you  will  not  refuse.” 

“ Mr.  Thornhill,”  replied  I,  “ hear  me  once  for 
all : as  to  your  marriage  with  any  but  my  daugh- 
ter, that  I never  will  consent  to ; and  though  your 


i7o  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

friendship  could  raise  me  to  a throne,  or  your  re- 
sentment sink  me  to  the  grave,  yet  would  I despise 
both.  Thou  hast  once  wofully,  irreparably  de- 
ceived me.  I reposed  my  heart  upon  thine  honor, 
and  have  found  its  baseness.  Never  more,  there- 
fore, expect  friendship  from  me.  Go,  and  possess 
what  fortune  has  given  thee,  beauty,  riches,  health, 
and  pleasure.  Go,  and  leave  me  to  want,  infamy, 
disease,  and  sorrow.  Yet  humbled  as  I am,  shall 
my  heart  still  vindicate  its  dignity,  and  though 
thou  hast  my  forgiveness  thou  shalt  ever  have  my 
contempt.” 

“ If  so,”  returned  he,  “ depend  upon  it  you 
shall  feel  the  effects  of  this  insolence,  and  we  shall 
shortly  see  which  is  the  fittest  object  of  scorn,  you 
or  me.”  — Upon  which  he  departed  abruptly. 

My  wife  and  son,  who  were  present  at  this  inter- 
view, seemed  terrified  with  the  apprehension.  My 
daughters,  also,  finding  that  he  was  gone,  came 
out  to  be  informed  of  the  result  of  our  conference, 
which,  when  known,  alarmed  them  not  less  than 
the  rest.  But  as  to  myself,  I disregarded  the 
utmost  stretch  of  his  malevolence  : he  had  already 
struck  the  blow,  and  now  I stood  prepared  to  repel 
every  new  effort.  Like  one  of  those  instruments 
used  in  the  art  of  war,  which,  however  thrown,  still 
presents  a point  to  receive  the  enemy. 

We  soon,  however,  found  that  he  had  not  threat- 
ened in  vain ; for  the  very  next  morning  his  stew- 
ard came  to  demand  my  annual  rent,  which,  by 
the  train  of  accidents  already  related,  I was  unable 
to  pay.  The  consequence  of  my  incapacity  was 
his  driving  my  cattle  that  evening,  and  their  being 
appraised  and  sold  the  next  day  for  less  than  half 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


I7I 

their  value.  My  wife  and  children  now  therefore 
entreated  me  to  comply  upon  any  terms,  rather  than 
incur  certain  destruction.  They  even  begged  of 
me  to  admit  his  visits  once  more,  and  used  all  their 
little  eloquence  to  paint  the  calamities  I was 
going  to  endure ; — the  terrors  of  a prison  in  so 
rigorous  a season  as  the  present,  with  the  danger 
that  threatened  my  health  from  the  late  accident 
that  happened  by  the  tire.  But  I continued  in- 
flexible. 

“ Why,  my  treasures,”  cried  I,  “ why  will  you 
thus  attempt  to  persuade  me  to  the  thing  that  is 
not  right  ? My  duty  has  taught  me  to  forgive 
him  ; but  my  conscience  will  not  permit  me  to 
approve.  Would  you  have  me  applaud  to  the 
world  what  my  heart  must  internally  condemn  ? 
Would  you  have  me  tamely  sit  down  and  flatter 
our  infamous  betrayer ; and  to  avoid  a prison  con- 
tinually suffer  the  more  galling  bonds  of  mental 
confinement  ? No,  never.  If  we  are  to  be  taken 
from  this  abode,  only  let  us  hold  to  the  right,  and 
wherever  we  are  thrown  we  can  still  retire  to  a 
charming  apartment,  when  we  can  look  round  our 
own  hearts  with  intrepidity  and  with  pleasure ! ” 

In  this  manner  we  spent  that  evening.  Early 
the  next  morning,  as  the  snow  had  fallen  in  great 
abundance  in  the  night,  my  son  was  employed  in 
clearing  it  away,  and  opening  a passage  before  the 
door.  He  had  not  been  thus  engaged  long  when 
he  came  running  in,  with  looks  all  pale,  to  tell  us, 
that  two  strangers,  whom  he  knew  to  be  officers 
of  justice,  were  making  towards  the  house. 

Just  as  he  spoke  they  came  in,  and,  approaching 
the  bed  where  I lay,  after  previously  informing  me 


172 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


of  their  employment  and  business,  made  me  their 
prisoner,  bidding  me  prepare  to  go  with  them  to 
the  county  gaol,  which  was  eleven  miles  off. 

“ My  friends,”  said  I,  “ this  is  severe  weather 
on  which  you  have  come  to  take  me  to  a prison  ; 
and  it  is  particularly  unfortunate  at  this  time,  as 
one  of  my  arms  has  lately  been  burnt  in  a ter- 
rible manner,  and  it  has  thrown  me  into  a slight 
fever,  and  I want  clothes  to  cover  me,  and  I am 
now  too  weak  and  old  to  walk  far  in  such  deep 
snow,  but  if  it  must  be  so ” 

I then  turned  to  my  wife  and  children,  and 
directed  them  to  get  together  what  few  things 
were  left  us,  and  to  prepare  immediately  for  leav- 
ing this  place.  I entreated  them  to  be  expedi- 
tious, and  desired  my  son  to  assist  his  eldest  sister, 
who,  from  a consciousness  that  she  was  the  cause 
of  all  our  calamities,  was  fallen,  and  had  lost  an- 
guish in  insensibility.  I encouraged  my  wife,  who, 
pale  and  trembling,  clasped  our  affrighted  little 
ones  in  her  arms,  that  clung  to  her  bosom  in 
silence,  dreading  to  look  round  at  the  strangers. 
In  the  mean  time  my  youngest  daughter  prepared 
for  our  departure,  and  as  she  received  several 
hints  to  use  dispatch,  in  about  an  hour  we  were 
ready  to  depart. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

No  Situation,  however  wretched  it  seems, 

BUT  HAS  SOME  SORT  OF  COMFORT  ATTENDING 

IT. 


E set  forward  from  this  peaceful  neigh- 
borhood, and  walked  on  slowly.  My 
eldest  daughter  being  enfeebled  by  a 
slow  fever,  which  had  begun  for  some 
days  to  undermine  her  constitution,  one  of  the 
officers,  who  had  an  horse,  kindly  took  her  behind 
him ; for  even  these  men  cannot  entirely  divest 
themselves  of  humanity.  My  son  led  one  of  the 
little  ones  by  the  hand,  and  my  wife  the  other, 
while  I leaned  upon  my  youngest  girl,  whose  tears 
fell  not  for  her  own  but  my  distresses. 

We  were  now  got  from  my  late  dwelling  about 
two  miles,  when  we  saw  a crowd  running  and 
shouting  behind  us,  consisting  of  about  fifty  of  my 
poorest  parishioners.  These,  with  dreadful  im- 
precations, soon  seized  upon  the  two  officers  of 
justice,  and  swearing  they  would  never  see  their 
minister  go  to  a gaol  while  they  had  a drop  of 
blood  to  shed  in  his  defence,  were  going  to  use  them 
with  great  severity.  The  consequence  might  have 
been  fatal,  had  I not  immediately  interposed,  and 
with  some  difficulty  rescued  the  officers  from  the 


\ 


i74  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

hands  of  the  enraged  multitude.  My  children, 
who  looked  upon  my  delivery  now  as  certain, 
appeared  transported  with  joy,  and  were  incapable 
of  containing  their  raptures.  But  they  were  soon 
undeceived,  upon  hearing  me  address  the  poor 
deluded  people,  who  came,  as  they  imagined,  to 
do  me  service. 

“ What ! my  friends,”  cried  I,  “ and  is  this  the 
way  you  love  me  ? Is  this  the  manner  you  obey 
the  instructions  I have  given  you  from  the  pulpit  ? 
Thus  to  fly  in  the  face  of  justice,  and  bring  down 
ruin  on  yourselves  and  me  ? Which  is  your  ring- 
leader ? Show  me  the  man  that  has  thus  seduced 
you.  As  sure  as  he  lives  he  shall  feel  my  resent- 
ment. Alas ! my  dear  deluded  flock,  return  back 
to  the  duty  you  owe  to  God,  to  your  country,  and 
to  me.  I shall  yet  perhaps  one  day  see  you  in 
greater  felicity  here,  and  contribute  to  make  your 
lives  more  happy.  But  let  it  at  least  be  my  com- 
fort when  I pen  my  fold  for  immortality,  that  not 
one  here  shall  be  wanting.” 

They  now  seemed  all  repentance,  and  melting  into 
tears,  came  one  after  the  other  to  bid  me  farewell. 
I shook  each  tenderly  by  the  hand,  and  leaving 
them  my  blessing,  proceeded  forward  without  meet- 
ing any  farther  interruption.  Some  hours  before 
night  we  reached  the  town,  or  rather  village ; for 
it  consisted  but  of  a few  mean  houses,  having  lost 
all  its  former  opulence,  and  retaining  no  marks  of 
its  ancient  superiority  but  the  gaol. 

Upon  entering  we  put  up  at  an  inn,  where  we 
had  such  refreshments  as  could  most  readily  be 
procured,  and  1 supped  with  my  family  with  my 
usual  cheerfulness.  After  seeing  them  properly 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


*75 


accommodated  for  that  night,  I next  attended  the 
sheriff’s  officers  to  the  prison,  which  had  formerly 
been  built  for  the  purposes  of  war,  and  consisted 
of  one  large  apartment,  strongly  grated  and  paved 
with  stone,  common  to  both  felons  and  debtors  at 
certain  hours  in  the  four-and-twenty.  Beside  this, 
every  prisoner  had  a separate  cell,  where  he  was 
locked  in  for  the  night. 

I expected  upon  my  entrance  to  find  nothing 
hut  lamentations  and  various  sounds  of  misery  ; 
but  it  was  very  different.  The  prisoners  seemed 
all  employed  in  one  common  design,  that  of  for- 
getting thought  in  merriment  or  clamor.  I was 
apprised  of  the  usual  perquisite  required  upon 
these  occasions,  and  immediately  complied  with 
the  demand,  though  the  little  money  I had  was 
very  near  being  all  exhausted.  This  was  imme- 
diately sent  away  for  liquor,  and  the  whole  prison 
soon  was  filled  with  riot,  laughter,  and  profane- 
ness. 

“ How,”  cried  I to  myself,  “ shall  men  so  very 
wicked  be  cheerful,  and  shall  I be  melancholy  ! I 
feel  only  the  same  confinement  with  them,  and  I 
think  I have  more  reason  to  be  happy.” 

With  such  reflections  I labored  to  become  cheer- 
ful ; but  cheerfulness  was  never  yet  produced  by 
effort,  which  is  itself  painful.  \ As  I was  sitting 
therefore  in  a corner  of  the  gaol  in  a pensive  pos- 
ture, one  of  my  fellow-prisoners  came  up,  and  sit- 
ting by  me,  entered  into  conversation.  It  was  my 
constant  rule  in  life  never  to  avoid  the  conversa- 
tion of  any  man  who  seemed  to  desire  it ; for  if 
good  I might  profit  by  his  instruction  ; if  bad  he 
might  be  assisted  by  mine.  I found  this  to  be  a 


176  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 

knowing  man,  of  strong  unlettered  sense ; but  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  world,  as  it  is  called, 
or,  more  properly  speaking,  of  human  nature  on 
the  wrong  side.  He  asked  me  if  I had  taken  care 
to  provide  myself  with  a bed,  which  was  a circum- 
stance I had  never  once  attended  to. 

“ That ’s  unfortunate,”  cried  he,  “ as  you  are 
allowed  here  nothing  but  straw,  and  your  apart- 
ment is  very  large  and  cold.  However,  you  seem 
to  be  something  of  a gentleman,  and,  as  I have 
been  one  myself  in  my  time,  part  of  my  bed- 
clothes are  heartily  at  your  service.” 

I thanked  him,  professing  my  surprise  at  find- 
ing such  humanity  in  a gaol,  in  misfortunes ; ad- 
ding, to  let  him  see  that  I was  a scholar,  “ That 
the  sage  ancient  seemed  to  understand  the  value  of 
company  in  affliction,  when  he  said,  Ton  Jcosmon 
aire,  ei  dos  ton  etairon ; and  in  fact,”  continued  I, 
“ what  is  the  world  if  it  affords  only  solitude  ? ” 
“ You  talk  of  the  world,  Sir,”  returned  my  fel- 
low-prisoner : “ the  world  is  in  its  dotage,  and 
yet  the  cosmogony  or  creation  of  the  world  has 
puzzled  the  philosophers  of  every  age.  What  a 
medley  of  opinions  have  they  not  broached  upon  the 
creation  of  the  world.  Sanchoniathon,  Manetho, 
Berosus,  and  Ocellus  Lucanus  have  all  attempted 
it  in  vain.  The  latter  has  these  words,  Anarchon 
ara  kai  atelutaion  to  pan,  which  implies  — ” aI  ask 
pardon,  Sir,”  cried  I,  for  interrupting  so  much 
learning;  but  I think  I have  heard  all  this  before. 
Have  I not  had  the  pleasure  of  once  seeing  you  at 
Welbridge  fair,  and  is  not  your  name  Ephraim 
Jenkinson  ? ” At  this  demand  he  only  sighed. 
“ I suppose  you  must  recollect,”  resumed  I,  “ one 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


177 

Doctor  Primrose,  from  whom  you  bought  a 
horse  ? ” 

He  now  at  once  recollected  me ; for  the  gloom- 
iness of  the  place  and  the  approaching  night  had 
prevented  his  distinguishing  my  features  before.  — 
“ Yes,  Sir,”  returned  Mr.  Jenkinson,  “ I remember 
you  perfectly  well ; I bought  a horse,  but  forgot  to 
pay  for  him.  Your  neighbor  Flamborough  is  the 
only  prosecutor  I am  any  way  afraid  of  at  the  next 
assizes  : for  he  intends  to  swear  positively  against 
me  as  a coiner.  I am  heartily  sorry,  Sir,  I ever 
deceived  you,  or  indeed  any  man  ; for  you  see,” 
continued  he,  showing  his  shackles,  “ what  my 
tricks  have  brought  me  to.” 

“ Well,  Sir,”  replied  I,  “your  kindness  in  offer- 
ing me  assistance  when  you  could  expect  no  re- 
turn, shall  be  repaid  with  my  endeavors  to  soften 
or  totally  suppress  Mr.  Flamborough’s  evidence, 
and  I will  send  my  son  to  him  for  that  purpose 
the  first  opportunity  ; nor  do  I in  the  least  doubt 
but  he  will  comply  with  my  request ; and  as  to  my 
own  evidence,  you  need  be  under  no  uneasiness 
about  that.” 

“ Well,  Sir,”  cried  he,  “ all  the  return  I can 
make  shall  be  yours.  You  shall  have  more  than 
half  my  bed-clothes  to-night,  and  I ’ll  take  care  to 
stand  your  friend  in  the  prison,  where  I think  I 
have  some  influence.” 

I thanked  him.,  and  could  not  avoid  being  sur- 
prised at  the  present  youthful  change  in  his  as- 
pect ; for  at  the  time  I had  seen  him  before  he 
appeared  at  least  sixty.  — “ Sir,”  answered  he, 
“ you  are  little  acquainted  with  the  world  ; I had 
at  that  time  false  hair,  and  have  learnt  the  art  of 
12 


>1 


1 78  the  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

counterfeiting  every  age  from  seventeen  to  seventy. 
Ah ! Sir,  had  I but  bestowed  half  the  pains  in 
learning  a trade  that  I have  in  learning  to  be  a 
scoundrel,  I might  have  been  a rich  man  at  this 
day.  f But,  rogue  as  I am,  still  I may  be  your 
friend,  and  that  perhaps  when  you  least  expect  it.” 
We  were  now  prevented  from  further  conversa- 
tion by  the  arrival  of  the  gaoler’s  servants,  who 
came  to  call  over  the  prisoners’  names,  and  lock 
up  for  the  night.  A fellow  also  with  a bundle  of 
straw  for  my  bed  attended,  who  led  me  along  a 
dark  narrow  passage  into  a room  paved  like  the 
common  prison,  and  in  one  corner  of  this  I spread 
my  bed,  and  the  clothes  given  me  by  my  fellow- 
prisoner  ; which  done,  my  conductor,  who  was  civil 
enough,  bade  me  a good  night.  After  my  usual 
meditations,  and  having  praised  my  heavenly  cor- 
rector, I laid  myself  down  and  slept  with  the  ut- 
most tranquillity  till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


A Reformation  in  the  Gaol. — To  make  Laws 

COMPLETE  THEY  SHOULD  REWARD  AS  WELL  AS 
PUNISH. 

HE  next  morning  early  I was  awakened 
by  my  family,  whom  I found  in  tears 
at  my  bedside.  The  gloomy  strength 
of  everything  about  us,  it  seems,  had 
daunted  them.  I gently  rebuked  their  sorrow,  as- 
suring them  I had  never  slept  with  greater  tran- 
quillity, and  next  inquired  after  my  eldest  daughter, 
who  was  not  among  them.  They  informed  me 
that  yesterday's  uneasiness  and  fatigue  had  in- 
creased her  fever,  and  it  was  judged  proper  to 
leave  her  behind.  My  next  care  was  to  send  my 
son  to  procure  a room  or  two  to  lodge  the  family 
in,  as  near  the  prison  as  conveniently  could  be 
found.  He  obeyed ; but  could  only  find  one  apart- 
ment, which  was  hired  at  a small  expense  for  his 
mother  and  sisters,  the  gaoler  with  humanity  con- 
senting to  let  him  and  his  two  little  brothers  lie  in 
the  prison  with  me.  A bed  was  therefore  pre- 
pared for  them  in  a corner  of  the  room,  which  I 
thought  answered  very  conveniently.  I was  wil- 
ling, however,  previously  to  know  whether  my  little 
children  chose  to  lie  in  a place  which  seemed  to 
fright  them  upon  entrance. 


/ 


i8o  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


“ Well,”  cried  I,  “ my  good  boys,  how  do  you 
like  your  bed  ? I hope  you  are  not  afraid  to  lie  in 
this  room,  dark  as  it  appears.” 

“ No,  papa,”  says  Dick,  “ I am  not  afraid  to  lie 
anywhere  where  you  are.” 

“ And  I,”  says  Bill,  who  was  yet  but  four  years 
old,  “ love  every  place  best  that  my  papa  is  in.” 
After  this  I allotted  to  each  of  the  family  what 
they  were  to  do.  My  daughter  was  particularly 
directed  to  watch  her  declining  sister’s  health  ; my 
wife  was  to  attend  me  ; my  little  boys  were  to  read 
to  me:  “And  as  for  you,  my  son,”  continued  I, 
“ it  is  by  the  labor  of  your  hands  we  must  all  hope 
to  be  supported.  Your  wages  as  a day-laborer  will 
be  fully  sufficient,  with  proper  frugality,  to  main- 
tain us  all,  and  comfortably  too.  Thou  art  now 
sixteen  years  old,  and  hast  strength,  and  it  was 
given  thee,  my  son,  for  very  useful  purposes ; for 
it  must  save  from  famine  your  helpless  parents  and 
family.  Prepare  then  this  evening  to  look  out  for 
work  against  to-morrow,  and  bring  home  every 
night  what  money  you  earn,  for  our  support.” 
Having  thus  instructed  him  and  settled  the  rest, 
I walked  down  to  the  common  prison,  where  I 
could  enjoy  more  air  and  room.  But  I was  not 
long  there  when  the  execrations,  lewdness,  and 
brutality  that  invaded  me  on  every  side,  drove  me 
back  to  my  apartment  again.  Here  I sat  for  some 
time,  pondering  upon  the  strange  infatuation  of 
wretches  who,  finding  all  mankind  in  open  arms 
against  them,  were  laboring  to  make  themselves  a 
future  and  a tremendous  enemy. 

Their  insensibility  excited  my  highest  compas- 
sion, and  blotted  my  own  uneasiness  from  my 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


181 


nind.  It  even  appeared  a duty  incumbent  upon 
me  to  attempt  to  reclaim  them.  I resolved  there- 
fore once  more  to  return,  and,  in  spite  of  their  con- 
tempt, to  give  them  my  advice,  and  conquer  them 
by  perseverance.  Going  therefore  among  them 
again,  I informed  Mr.  Jenkinson  of  my  design,  at 
which  he  laughed  heartily,  but  communicated  it  to 
the  rest.  The  proposal  was  received  with  the 
greatest  good  humor,  as  it  promised  to  afford  a new 
fund  of  entertainment  to  persons  who  had  now  no 
other  resource  for  mirth,  but  what  could  be  de- 
rived from  ridicule  or  debauchery. 

I therefore  read  them  a portion  of  the  service 
with  a loud  unaffected  voice,  and  found  my  audi- 
ence perfectly  merry  upon  the  occasion.  Lewd 
whispers,  groans  of  contrition  burlesqued,  winking 
and  coughing,  alternately  excited  laughter.  How- 
ever, I continued  with  my  natural  solemnity  to  read 
on,  sensible  that  what  I did  might  mend  some,  but 
could  itself  receive  no  contamination  from  any. 

After  reading  I entered  upon  my  exhortation, 
which  was  rather  calculated  at  first  to  amuse  them 
than  to  reprove.  I previously  observed,  that  no 
other  motive  but  their  welfare  could  induce  me  to 
this ; that  I was  their  fellow-prisoner,  and  now 
got  nothing  by  preaching.  I was  sorry,  I said,  to 
hear  them  so  very  profane  ; because  they  got  noth- 
ing by  it,  but  might  lose  a great  deal : “ For,  be 
assured,  my  friends,”  cried  I,  “ for  yon  are  my 
friends,  however  the  world  may  disclaim  your 
friendship,  though  you  swore  twelve  thousand  oaths 
in  a day,  it  would  not  put  one  penny  in  your  purse. 
Then  what  signifies  calling  every  moment  upon 
the  devil,  and  courting  his  friendship,  since  you 


1 82  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


find  how  scurvily  he  uses  you.  He  has  given  you 
nothing  here,  you  find,  but  a mouthful  of  oaths 
and  an  empty  belly;  and  by  the  best  accounts  I 
have  of  him,  he  will  give  you  nothing  that ’s  good 
hereafter. 

“ If  used  ill  in  our  dealings  with  one  man,  we 
naturally  go  elsewhere.  Were  it  not  worth  your 
while  then  just  to  try  how  you  may  like  the  usage 
of  another  master,  who  gives  you  fair  promises  at 
least  to  come  to  him.  Surely,  my  friends,  of  all 
stupidity  in  the  world  his  must  be  the  greatest  who, 
after  robbing  a house,  runs  to  the  thief-takers  for 
protection.  And  yet  how  are  you  more  wise  ? 
You  are  all  seeking  comfort  from  one  that  has 
already  .betrayed  you,  applying  to  a more  mali- 
cious being  than  any  thief-taker  of  them  all ; for 
they  only  decoy  and  then  hang  you  ; but  he  decoys 
and  hangs,  and  what  is  worst  of  all,  will  not  let 
you  loose  after  the  hangman  has  done.” 

When  I had  concluded  I received  the  compli- 
ments of  my  audience,  some  of  whom  came  and 
shook  me  by  the  hand,  swearing  that  I was  a very 
honest  fellow,  and  that  they  desired  my  further  ac- 
quaintance. I therefore  promised  to  repeat  my 
lecture  next  day,  and  actually  conceived  some  hopes 
of  making  a reformation  here ; for  it  had  ever  been 
my  opinion,  that  no  man  was  past  the  hour  of 
amendment,  every  heart  lying  open  to  the  shafts 
of  reproof,  if  the  archer  could  but  take  a proper 
aim.  When  I had  thus  satisfied  my  mind  I went 
back  to  my  apartment,  where  my  wife  prepared  a 
frugal  meal,  while  Mr.  Jenkinson  begged  leave  to 
add  his  dinner  to  ours,  and  partake  of  the  pleas- 
ure, as  he  was  kind  enough  to  express  it,  of  my 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  183 

conversation.  He  had  not  yet  seen  my  family ; 
for  as  they  came  to  my  apartment  by  a door  in  the 
narrow  passage  already  described,  by  this  means 
they  avoided  the  common  prison.  Jenkinson,  at 
the  first  interview  therefore,  seemed  not  a little 
struck  with  the  beauty  of  my  youngest  daughter, 
which  her  pensive  air  contributed  to  heighten,  and 
my  little  ones  did  not  pass  unnoticed. 

“ Alas,  doctor,”  cried  he,  “ these  children  are 
too  handsome  and  too  good  for  such  a place  as 
this ! ” 

“ Why,  Mr.  Jenkinson,”  replied  I,  “ thank  heav- 
en my  children  are  pretty  tolerable  in  morals,  and 
if  they  be  good  it  matters  little  for  the  rest.” 

“ I fancy,  sir,”  returned  my  fellow-prisoner, 
“ that  it  must  give  you  great  comfort  to  have  this 
little  family  about  you.” 

“A  comfort,  Mr.  Jenkinson,”  replied  I,  “ yes 
it  is  indeed  a comfort,  and  I would  not  be  without 
them  for  all  the  world  ; for  they  can  make  a dun- 
geon seem  a palace.  There  is  but  one  way  in  this 
life  of  wounding  my  happiness,  and  that  is  by  in- 
juring them.” 

“ I am  afraid  then,  sir,”  cried  he,  “ that  I am 
in  some  measure  culpable ; for  I think  I see  here,” 
looking  at  my  son  Moses,  “ one  that  I have  in- 
jured, and  by  whom  I wish  to  be  forgiven.” 

My  son  immediately  recollected  his  voice  and 
features,  though  he  had  before  seen  him  in  dis- 
guise, and  taking  him  by  the  hand,  with  a smile, 
forgave  him.  “ Yet,”  continued  he,  “ I can’t  help 
wondering  at  what  you  could  see  in  my  face  to 
think  me  a proper  mark  for  deception.” 

“ My  dear  sir,”  returned  the  other,  “ it  was  not 


1 84  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 

your  face,  but  your  white  stockings  and  the  black 
ribbon  in  your  hair,  that  allured  me.  But,  no  dis- 
paragement to  your  parts,  I have  deceived  wiser 
men  than  you  in  my  time;  and  yet,  with  all  my 
tricks,  the  blockheads  have  been  too  many  for  me 
at  last.” 

“ I suppose,”  cried  my  son,  “ that  the  narrative 
of  such  a life  as  yours  must  be  extremely  instruc- 
tive and  amusing.” 

“ Not  much  of  either,”  returned  Mr.  Jenkinson. 
“ Those  relations  which  describe  the  tricks  and 
vices  only  of  mankind,  by  increasing  our  suspi- 
cion in  life  retard  our  success.  The  traveller  that 
distrusts  every  person  he  meets,  and  turns  back  up- 
on the  appearance  of  every  man  that  looks  like  a 
robber,  seldom  arrives  in  time  at  his  journey’s 
end. 

“ Indeed,  I think,  from  my  own  experience,  that 
the  knowing  one  is  the  silliest  fellow  under  the  sun. 
I was  thought  cunning  from  my  very  childhood ; 
when  but  seven  years  old  the  ladies  would  say  that 
I was  a perfect  little  man ; at  fourteen  I knew  the 
world,  cocked  my  hat,  and  loved  the  ladies ; at 
twenty,  though  I was  perfectly  honest,  yet  every 
one  thought  me  so  cunning  that  not  one  would 
trust  me.  Thus  I was  at  last  obliged  to  turn 
sharper  in  my  own  defence,  and  have  lived  ever 
since,  my  head  throbbing  with  schemes  to  deceive, 
and  my  heart  palpitating  with  fears  of  detection. 
I used  often  to  laugh  at  your  honest  simple  neigh- 
bor Flamborough,  and  one  way  or  another  gener- 
ally cheated  him  once  a year.  Yet  still  the  honest 
man  went  forward  without  suspicion,  and  grew 
rich,  while  I still  continued  tricksy  and  cunning, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  185 


and  was  poor,  without  the  consolation  of  being 
honest.  However,”  continued  he,  “ let  me  know 
your  case,  and  what  has  brought  you  here ; per- 
haps, though  I have  not  skill  to  avoid  a gaol  my- 
self, I may  extricate  my  friends.” 

In  compliance  with  this  curiosity,  I informed 
him  of  the  whole  train  of  accidents  and  follies  that 
had  plunged  me  into  my  present  troubles,  and  my 
utter  inability  to  get  free. 

After  hearing  my  story,  and  pausing  some  min- 
utes, he  slapped  his  forehead,  as  if  he  had  hit  upon 
something  material,  and  took  his  leave,  saying,  he, 
would  try  what  could  be  done. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

The  same  Subject  continued. 

HE  next  morning  I communicated  to 
my  wife  and  children  the  scheme  I had 
planned  of  reforming  the  prisoners, 
which  they  received  with  universal  dis- 
approbation, alleging  the  impossibility  and  impro- 
priety of  it ; adding,  that  my  endeavors  would  no 
way  contribute  to  their  amendment,  but  might 
probably  disgrace  my  calling. 

“ Excuse  me,”  returned  I,  “ these  people,  how- 
ever fallen,  are  still  men,  and  that  is  a very  good 
title  to  my  affections.  Good  counsel  rejected  re- 
turns to  enrich  the  giver’s  bosom  ; and  though  the 
instruction  I communicate  may  not  mend  them, 
yet  it  will  assuredly  mend  myself.  If  these 
wretches,  my  children,  were  princes,  there  would 
be  thousands  ready  to  offer  their  ministry  ; but 
in  my  opinion,  the  heart  that  is  buried  in  a dun- 
geon is  as  precious  as  that  seated  upon  a throne. 
Yes,  my  treasures,  if  I can  mend  them  I will ; per- 
haps they  will  not  all  despise  me.  Perhaps  I may 
catch  up  even  one  from  the  gulf,  and  that  will 
be  great  gain ; for  is  there  upon  earth  a gem  so 
precious  as  the  human  soul  ? ” 

Thus  saying  I left  them,  and  descended  to  the 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  187 

common  prison,  where  I found  the  prisoners  very 
merry,  expecting  my  arrival ; and  each  prepared 
with  some  gaol  trick  to  play  upon  the  doctor. 
Thus,  as  I was  going  to  begin,  one  turned  my  wig 
awry,  as  if  by  accident,  and  then  asked  my  par- 
don. A second,  who  stood  at  some  distance, 
had  a knack  of  spitting  through  his  teeth,  which 
fell  in  showers  upon  my  book.  A third  would  cry 
amen  in  such  an  affected  tone,  as  gave  the  rest 
great  delight.  A fourth  had  slyly  picked  my 
pocket  of  my  spectacles.  But  there  was  one 
whose  trick  gave  more  universal  pleasure  than  all 
the  rest ; for,  observing  the  manner  in  which  I 
had  disposed  my  books  on  the  table  before  me,  he 
very  dexterously  displaced  one  of  them,  and  put 
an  obscene  jest-book  of  his  own  in  the  place. 
However,  I took  no  notice  of  all  that  this  mis- 
chievous group  of  little  beings  could  do,  but  went 
on,  perfectly  sensible  that  what  was  ridiculous  in 
my  attempt  would  excite  mirth  only  the  first  or 
second  time,  while  what  was  serious  would-  be 
permanent.  My  design  succeeded,  and  in  less 
than  six  days  some  were  penitent,  and  all  atten- 
tive. 

It  was  now  that  I applauded  my  perseverance 
and  address,  at  thus  giving  sensibility  to  wretches 
divested  of  every  moral  feeling,  and  now  began  to 
think  of  doing  them  temporal  services  also,  by 
rendering  their  situation  somewhat  more  comfort- 
able. Their  time  had  hitherto  been  divided  be- 
tween famine  and  excess,  tumultuous  riot  and  bit- 
ter repining.  Their  only  employment  was  quar- 
relling among  each  other,  playing  at  cribbage,  and 
cutting  tobacco-stoppers.  From  this  last  mode 


1 88  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


of  idle  industry  I took  the  hint  of  setting  such  as 
chose  to  work  at  cutting  pegs  for  tobacconists  and 
shoemakers,  the  proper  wood  being  bought  by  a 
general  subscription,  and, when  manufactured,  sold 
by  my  appointment  ; so  that  each  earned  some- 
thing every  day  ; a trifle  indeed,  but  sufficient  to 
maintain  him. 

I did  not  stop  here,  but  instituted  fines  for  the 
punishment  of  immorality,  and  rewards  for  pecu- 
liar industry.  Thus,  in  less  than  a fortnight,  I 
had  formed  them  into  something  social  and  hu- 
mane, and  had  the  pleasure  of  regarding  myself  as 
a legislator,  who  had  brought  men  from  their 
native  ferocity  into  friendship  and  obedience. 

And  it  were  highly  to  be  wished,  that  legislative 
power  would  thus  direct  the  law  rather  to  reforma- 
tion than  severity.  That  it  would  seem  convinced 
that  the  work  of  eradicating  crimes  is  not  by  mak- 
ing punishments  familiar,  but  formidable.  Then, 
instead  of  our  present  prisons,  which  find  or  make 
men  guilty,  which  enclose  wretches  for  the  com- 
mission of  one  crime,  and  return  them,  if  returned 
alive,  fitted  for  the  perpetration  of  thousands  ; we 
should  see,  as  in  other  parts  of  Europe,  places  of 
penitence  and  solitude,  where  the  accused  might  be 
attended  by  such  as  could  give  them  repentance  if 
guilty,  or  new  motives  to  virtue  if  innocent.  And 
this,  but  not  the  increasing  punishments,  is  the 
way  to  mend  a state ; nor  can  I avoid  even  ques- 
tioning the  validity  of  that  right,  which  social 
combinations  have  assumed,  of  capitally  punishing 
offences  of  a slight  nature.  In  cases  of  murder 
their  right  is  obvious,  as  it  is  the  duty  of  us  all, 
from  the  law  of  self-defence,  to  cut  off  that  man 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  189 

who  has  shown  a disregard  for  the  life  of  another. 
Against  such,  all  nature  rises  in  arms  ; but  it  is 
not  so  against  him  who  steals  my  property. 
Natural  law  gives  me  no  right  to  take  away  his 
life,  as  by  that  the  horse  he  steals  is  as  much  his 
property  as  mine.  If,  then,  I have  any  right,  it 
must  be  from  a compact  made  between  us,  that  he 
who  deprives  the  other  of  his  horse  shall  die.  But 
this  is  a false  compact ; because  no  man  has  a 
right  to  barter  his  life,  any  more  than  to  take  it 
away,  as  it  is  not  his  own.  And  besides,  the 
compact  is  inadequate,  and  would  be  set  aside 
even  in  a court  of  modern  equity,  as  there  is  a 
great  penalty  for  a very  trifling  convenience,  since 
it  is  far  better  that  two  men  should  live  than  that 
one  man  should  ride.  But  a compact  that  is  false 
between  two  men,  is  equally  so  between  an  hun- 
dred, or  an  hundred  thousand ; for  as  ten  millions 
of  circles  can  never  make  a square,  so  the  united 
voice  of  myriads  cannot  lend  the  smallest  founda- 
tion to  falsehood.  It  is  thus  that  reason  speaks, 
and  untutored  nature  says  the  same  thing.  Sav- 
ages that  are  directed  by  natural  law  alone,  are 
very  tender  of  the  lives  of  each  other  ; they  seldom 
shed  blood  but  to  retaliate  former  cruelty. 

Our  Saxon  ancestors,  fierce  as  they  were  in 
war,  had  but  few  executions  in  times  of  peace ; 
and  in  all  commencing  governments,  that  have  the 
print  of  nature  still  strong  upon  them,  scarce  any 
crime  is  held  capital. 

It  is  among  the  citizens  of  a refined  community 
that  penal  laws,  which  are  in  the  hands  of  the 
rich,  are  laid  upon  the  poor.  Government,  while 
it  grows  older,  seems  to  acquire  the  moroseness  of 


i9d  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

age ; and,  as  if  our  property  were  become  dearer 
in  proportion  as  it  increased,  as  if  the  more  enor- 
mous our  wealth  the  more  extensive  our  fears,  all 
our  possessions  are  paled  up  with  new  edicts  every 
day,  and  hung  round  with  gibbets  to  scare  every 
invader. 

I cannot  tell  whether  it  is  from  the  number  of 
our  penal  laws,  or  the  licentiousness  of  our  people, 
that  this  country  should  show  more  convicts  in  a 
year  than  half  the  dominions  of  Europe  united. 
Perhaps  it  is  owing  to  both ; for  they  mutually 
produce  each  other.  When,  by  indiscriminate 
penal  laws,  a nation  beholds  the  same  punishment 
affixed  to  dissimilar  degrees  of  guilt,  from  perceiv- 
ing no  distinction  in  the  penalty,  the  people  are 
led  to  lose  all  sense  of  distinction  in  the  crime,  and 
this  distinction  is  the  bulwark  of  all  morality  : 
thus  the  multitude  of  laws  produce  new  vices,  and 
new  vices  call  for  fresh  restraints. 

It  were  to  be  wished,  then,  that  power,  instead 
of  contriving  new  laws  to  punish  vice,  instead  of 
drawing  hard  the  cords  of  society  till  a convulsion 
come  to  burst  them,  instead  of  cutting  away 
wretches  as  useless  before  we  have  tried  their 
utility,  instead  of  converting  correction  into  ven- 
geance, it  were  to  be  wished  that  we  tried  the 
restrictive  arts  of  government,  and  made  law  the 
protector,  hut  not  the  tyrant  of  the  people.  We 
should  then  find  that  creatures,  whose  souls  are 
held  as  dross,  only  wanted  the  hand  of  a refiner ; 
we  should  then  find  that  creatures,  now  stuck  up 
for  long  tortures,  lest  luxury  should  feel  a mo- 
mentary pang,  might,  if  properly  treated,  serve  to 
sinew  the  state  in  times  of  danger;  that,  as  their 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  i9i 

faces  are  like  ours,  their  hearts  are  so  too ; that 
few  minds  are  so  base  as  that  perseverance  cannot 
amend ; that  a man  may  see  his  last  crime  with- 
out dying  for  it ; and  that  very  little  blood  will 
serve  to  cement  our  security. 


CHAPTER  XX  Y III. 


Happiness  and  Misery  rather  the  result  of 
Prudence  than  of  Virtue  in  this  Life. — 
Temporal  Evils  or  Felicities  being  re- 
garded by  Heaven  as  Things  merely  in 
themselves  trifling,  and  unworthy  its 
Care  in  the  distribution. 

HAD  now  been  confined  more  than  a 
fortnight,  but  had  not  since  my  arrival 
been  visited  by  dear  Olivia,  and  I 
greatly  longed  to  see  her.  Having 
communicated  my  wishes  to  my  wife,  the  next 
morning  the  poor  girl  entered  my  apartment  lean- 
ing on  her  sister’s  arm.  The  change  which  I saw 
in  her  countenance  struck  me.  The  numberless 
graces  that  once  resided  there  were  now  fled,  and 
the  hand  of  death  seemed  to  have  moulded  every 
feature  to  alarm  me.  Her  temples  were  sunk, 
her  forehead  was  tense,  and  a fatal  paleness  sat 
upon  her  cheek. 

“ I am  glad  to  see  thee,  my  dear,”  cried  I ; 
“ but  why  this  dejection,  Livy?  I hope,  my  love, 
you  have  too  great  a regard  for  me  to  permit  dis- 
appointment thus  to  undermine  a life  which  I 
prize  as  my  own.  Be  cheerful,  child,  and  we  yet 
may  see  happier  days.” 

“ You  have  ever,  Sir,”  replied  she,  “been  kind 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


J93 

to  me,  and  it  adds  to  my  pain  that  I shall  never 
have  an  opportunity  of  sharing  that  happiness 
you  promise.  Happiness,  I fear,  is  no  longer 
reserved  for  me  here ; and  I long  to  be  rid  of  a 
place  where  I have  only  found  distress.  Indeed, 
Sir,  I wish  you  would  make  a proper  submission 
to  Mr.  Thornhill ; it  may,  in  some  measure,  in- 
duce him  to  pity  you,  and  it  will  give  me  relief  in 
dying.” 

“ Never,  child,”  replied  I,  “ never  will  I be 
brought  to  acknowledge  my  daughter  a prostitute ; 
for  though  the  world  may  look  upon  your  offence 
with  scorn,  let  it  be  mine  to  regard  it  as  a mark 
of  credulity,  not  of  guilt.  My  dear,  I am  no 
way  miserable  in  this  place,  however  dismal  it 
may  seem,  and  be  assured  that  while  you  continue 
to  bless  me  by  living,  he  shall  never  have  my 
consent  to  make  you  more  wretched  by  marrying 
another.” 

After  the  departure  of  my  daughter,  my  fellow- 
prisoner,  who  was  by  at  this  interview,  sensibly 
enough  expostulated  upon  my  obstinacy,  in  refus- 
ing a submission,  which  promised  to  give  me  free- 
dom. He  observed,  that  the  rest  of  my  family  was 
not  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  peace  of  one  child  alone, 
and  she  the  only  one  who  had  offended  me.  “ Be- 
side,” added  he,  “I  don’t  know  if  it  be  just  thus 
to  obstruct  the  union  of  man  and  wife,  which  you 
do  at  present,  by  refusing  to  consent  to  a match 
you  cannot  hinder,  but  may  render  unhappy.” 

“ Sir,”  replied  I,  “ you  are  unacquainted  with 
the  man  that  oppresses  us.  I am  very  sensible 
that  no  submission  I can  make  could  procure  me 
liberty,  even  for  an  hour.  I am  told  that  even  in 

*3 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


194 

this  very  room  a debtor  of  his,  no  later  than  last 
year,  died  for  want.  But  though  my  submission 
and  approbation  could  transfer  me  from  hence  to 
the  most  beautiful  apartment  he  is  possessed  of; 
yet  I would  grant  neither,  as  something  whispers 
me  that  it  would  be  giving  a sanction  to  adultery. 
While  my  daughter  lives  no  other  marriage  of  his 
shall  ever  be  legal  in  my  eye.  Were  she  removed, 
indeed,  I should  be  the  basest  of  men,  from  any 
resentment  of  my  own,  to  attempt  putting  asunder 
those  who  wish  for  an  union.  No,  villain  as  he  is, 
I should  then  wish  him  married,  to  prevent  the 
consequences  of  his  future  debaucheries.  But  now 
should  I not  be  the  most  cruel  of  all  fathers  to  sign 
an  instrument  which  must  send  my  child  to  the 
grave,  merely  to  avoid  a prison  myself;  and  thus 
to  escape  one  pang,  break  my  child’s  heart  with  a 
thousand  ? ” 

He  acquiesced  in  the  justice  of  this  answer,  but 
could  not  avoid  observing,  that  he  feared  my  daugh- 
ter’s life  was  already  too  much  wasted  to  keep  me 
long  a prisoner.  “ However,”  continued  he, 
“ though  you  refuse  to  submit  to  the  nephew,  I 
hope  you  have  no  objections  to  laying  your  case 
before  the  uncle,  who  has  the  first  character  in  the 
kingdom  for  everything  that  is  just  and  good. 
I would  advise  you  to  send  him  a letter  by  the 
post,  intimating  all  his  nephew's  ill-usage,  and  my 
life  for  it,  that  in  three  days  you  shall  have  an 
answer.”  1 thanked  him  for  the  hint,  and  instantly 
set  about  complying:  but  I wanted  paper,  and 
unluckily  all  our  money  had  been  laid  out  that 
morning  in  provisions  : however,  he  supplied  me. 

For  the  three  ensuing  days  I was  in  a state  of 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


195 


anxiety  to  know  what  reception  my  letter  might 
meet  with ; hut  in  the  mean  time  was  frequently 
solicited  by  my  wife  to  submit  to  any  conditions 
rather  than  remain  here,  and  every  hour  received 
repeated  accounts  of  the  decline  of  my  daughter’s 
health.  The  third  day  and  the  fourth  arrived,  but 
I received  no  answer  to  my  letter:  the  complaints 
of  a stranger  against  a favorite  nephew  were  no 
way  likely  to  succeed;  so  that  these  hopes  soon 
vanished  like  all  my  former.  My  mind,  however, 
still  supported  itself,  though  confinement  and  bad 
air  began  to  make  a visible  alteration  in  my 
health,  and  mv  arm  that  had  suffered  in  the  fire 
grew  worse.  My  children,  however,  sat  by  me, 
and,  while  I was  stretched  on  my  straw,  read  to  me 
by  turns,  or  listened  and  wept  at  my  instructions. 
But  my  daughter’s  health  declined  faster  than 
mine  * every  message  from  her  contributed  to  in- 
crease my  apprehensions  and  pain.  The  fifth 
morning  after  I had  written  the  letter  which  was 
sent  to  Sir  William  Thornhill,  I was  alarmed- with 
an  account  that  she  was  speechless.  Now  it  was 
that  confinement  was  truly  painful  to  me ; my  soul 
was  bursting  from  its  prison  to  be  near  the  pillow 
of  my  child,  to  comfort,  to  strengthen  her,  to  receive 
her  last  wishes,  and  teach  her  soul  the  way  to 
heaven  ! Another  account  came.  She  was  expir- 
ing, and  yet  I was  debarred  the  small  comfort  of 
weeping  by  her.  My  fellow-prisoner,  some  time 
after,  came  with  the  last  account.  He  bade  me  be 
patient.  She  was  dead  ! The  next  morning  he 
returned,  and  found  me  with  my  two  little  ones, 
now  my  only  companions,  who  were  using  all  their 
innocent  efforts  to  comfort  me.  They  entreated  to 


196  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

read  to  me,  and  bade  me  not  to  cry,  for  I was  now 
too  old  to  weep.  “ And  is  not  my  sister  an  angel 
now,  papa 2 ” cried  the  eldest,  “ and  why,  then, 
are  you  sorry  for  her  2 I wish  I were  an  anjel, 
out  of  this  frightful  place,  if  my  papa  were  with  me.” 
— “ Yes,”  added  my  youngest  darling,  “Heaven, 
where  my  sister  is,  is  a finer  place  than  this,  and 
there  are  none  but  good  people  there,  and  the 
people  here  are  very  bad.” 

Mr.  Jcnkinson  interrupted  their  harmless  prat- 
tle by  observing,  that  now  my  daughter  was  no 
more,  I should  seriously  think  of  the  rest  of  my 
family,  and  attempt  to  save  my  own  life,  which  was 
every  day  declining  for  want  of  necessaries  and 
wholesome  air.  He  added,  that  it  was  now  in- 
cumbent on  me  to  sacrifice  any  pride  or  resent- 
ment of  my  own,  to  the  welfare  of  those  who  de- 
pended on  me  for  support ; and  that  I was  now, 
both  by  reason  and  justice,  obliged  to  try  to  recon- 
cile my  landlord. 

“ Heaven  be  praised,”  replied  I,  “ there  is  no 
pride  left  me  now ; I should  detest  my  own  heart 
if  I saw  either  pride  or  resentment  lurking  there. 
On  the  contrary,  as  my  oppressor  has  been  once 
my  parishioner,  I hope  one  day  to  present  him  up 
an  unpolluted  soul  at  the  eternal  tribunal.  No, 
Sir,  I have  no  resentment  now,  and  though  he  has 
taken  from  me  what  I held  dearer  than  all  his 
treasures,  though  he  has  wrung  my  heart,  for  I 
am  sick  almost  to  fainting,  very  sick,  my  fellow- 
prisoner,  yet  that  shall  never  inspire  me  with  ven- 
geance. I am  now  willing  to  approve  his  mar- 
riage, and  if  this  submission  can  do  him  any  pleas- 
ure, let  him  know,  that  if  I have  done  him  any 
injury,  I am  sorry  for  it.” 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


197 


Mr.  Jenkinson  took  pen  and  ink,  and  wrote 
down  mv  submission  nearly  as  I have  expressed  it, 
to  which  I signed  my  name.  My  son  was  em- 
ployed to  carry  the*  letter  to  Mr.  Thornhill,  who 
was  then  at  his  seat  in  the  country.  He  went, 
and  in  about  six  hours  returned  with  a verbal  an- 
swer. He  had  some  difficulty,  he  said,  to  get  a 
sight  of  his  landlord,  as  the  servants  were  insolent 
and  suspicious;  but  he  accidentally  saw  him  as  he 
was  going  out  upon  business,  preparing  for  his 
marriage,  which  was  to  be  in  three  days.  He  con- 
tinued to  inform  us,  that  he  stepped  up  in  the 
lnimblest^manner  and  delivered  the  letter,  which, 
when  Mr.  Thornhill  had  read,  he  said  that  all  sub- 
mission was  now  too  late,  and  unnecessary ; that 
he  had  heard  of  our  application  to  his  uncle,  which 
met  with  the  contempt  it  deserved;  and  as  for  the 
rest,  that  all  future  applications  should  be  directed 
to  his  attorney,  not  to  him.  He  observed,  how- 
ever, that  as  he  had  a very  good  opinion  of  the 
discretion  of  the  two  young  ladies,  they  might  have 
been  the  most  agreeable  intercessors. 

“Well,  Sir,”  said  I to  my  fellow-prisoner,  “you 
now  discover  the  temper  of  the  man  who  oppresses 
me.  He  can  at  once  be  facetious  and  cruel ; but 
let  him  use  me  as  he. will,  I shall  soon  be  free,  in 
spite  of  all  his  bolts  to  restrain  me.  I am  now 
drawing  towards  an  abode  that  looks  brighter  as  I 
approach  it ; this  expectation  cheers  my  afflictions, 
and  though  I leave  an  helpless  family  of  orphans 
behind  me,  yet  they  will  not  be  utterly  forsaken ; 
some  friend,  perhaps,  will  be  found  to  assist  them 
for  the  sake  of  their  poor  father,  and  some  may 
charitably  relieve  them  for  the  sake  of  their  Heav- 
enly Father.” 


198  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

Just  as  I spoke,  my  wife,  whom  I had  not  seen 
that  day  before,  appeared  with  looks  of  terror,  and 
making  efforts,  but  unable  to  speak.  “ Why,  my 
love,”  cried  I,  “ why  will  you  thus  increase  my 
afflictions  by  your  own,  what  though  no  submis- 
sions can  turn  our  severe  master,  though  he  has 
doomed  me  to  die  in  this  place  of  wretchedness, 
and  though  we  have  lost  a darling  child,  yet  still 
you  will  find  comfort  in  your  other  children  when 
I shall  be  no  more.”  — “We  have  indeed  lost,”  re- 
turned she,  “ a darling  child.  My  Sophia,  my 
dearest,  is  gone,  snatched  from  us,  carried  off  by 
ruffians  ! ” » 

“ How,  madam  ! ” cried  my  fellow-prisoner, 
“ Miss  Sophia  carried  off  by  villains,  sure  it  can- 
not be  ? ” 

She  could  only  answer  with  a fixed  look  and  a 
flood  of  tears.  But  one  of  the  prisoner’s  wives, 
who  was  present,  and  came  in  with  her,  gave  us  a 
more  distinct  account : she  informed  us  that  as  my 
my  wife,  my  daughter,  and  herself  were  taking  a 
walk  together  on  the  great  road  a little  way  out  of 
the  village,  a post-chaise  and  pair  drove  up  to 
them,  and  instantly  stopped.  Upon  which,  a well 
dressed  man,  but  not  Mr.  Thornhill,  stepping  out, 
clasped  my  daughter  round  the  waist,  and  forcing 
her  in,  bid  the  postilion  drive  on,  so  that  they 
were  out  of  sight  in  a moment. 

“Now,”  cried  I,  “the  sum  of  my  miseries  is 
made  up,  nor  is  it  in  the  power  of  anything  on 
earth  to  give  me  another  pang.  What ! not  one 
left ! not  to  leave  me  one  ! the  monster  ! The  child 
that  was  next  my  heart  ! she  had  the  beauty  of  an 
angel,  and  almost  the  wisdom  of  an  angel.  But 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  199 

support  that  woman,  nor  let  her  fall.  Not  to  leave 
me  one  ! ” 

“ Alas  ! my  husband,”  said  my  wife,  “ you  seem 
to  want  comfort  even  more  than  I.  Our  distresses 
are  great ; but  I could  bear  this  and  more,  if  I 
saw  you  but  easy.  They  may  take  away  my  chil- 
dren, and  all  the  world,  if  they  leave  me  but  you.” 

My  son,  who  was  present,  endeavored  to  mod- 
erate our  grief ; he  bade  us  take  comfort,  for  he 
hoped  that  we  might  still  have  reason  to  be  thank- 
ful. — “ My  child,”  cried  I,  “ look  round  the  world, 
and  see  if  there  be  any  happiness  left  me  now.  Is 
not  every  ray  of  comfort  shut  out ; while  all  our 
bright  prospects  only  lie  beyond  the  grave ! ” — 
“ My  dear  father,”  returned  he,  “ I hope  there  is 
still  something  that  will  give  you  an  interval  of 
satisfaction,  for  I have  a letter  from  my  brother 
George.”  — “ What  of  him,  child,”  interrupted  I, 
does  he  know  our  misery  ? I hope  my  boy  is  ex- 
empt from  any  part  of  what  his  wretched  family 
suffers  ? ” — “ Yes,  Sir,”  returned  he  ; “ he  is  per- 
fectly  gay,  cheerful,  and  happy.  His  letter  brings 
nothing  but  good  news ; he  is  the  favorite  of  his 
colonel,  who  promises  to  procure  him  the  very 
next  lieutenancy  that  becomes  vacant ! ” 

“ And  are  you  sure  of  all  this,”  cried  my  wife, 
“ are  you  sure  that  nothing  ill  has  befallen  my 
boy  ? ” — “ Nothing  indeed,  Madam,”  returned  my 
son,  “you  shall  see  the  letter,  which  will  give  you 
the  highest  pleasure  ; and  if  anything  can  procure 
you  comfort  I am  sure  that  will.”  — “But  are 
you  sure,”  still  repeated  she,  “ that  the  letter  is 
from  himself,  and  that  he  is  really  so  happy  ? ” — 
“ Yes,  Madam,”  replied  he,  “ it  is  certainly  his, 


200 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


and  he  will  one  day  be  the  credit  and  the  support 
of  our  family  ? ” — “ Then  I thank  Providence,” 
cried  she;  “that  my  last  letter  to  him  has  mis- 
carried.— Yes,  my  dear/’ continued  she,  turning 
to  me,  “ I will  now  confess,  that  though  the  hand 
of  Heaven  is  sore  upon  us  in  other  instances,  it 
has  been  favorable  here.  By  the  last  letter  I 
wrote  my  son,  which  was  in  the  bitterness  of  an- 
ger, I desired  him,  upon  his  mother’s  blessing,  and 
if  he  had  the  heart  of  a man,  to  see  justice  done 
his  father  and  sister,  and  avenge  our  cause.  But 
thanks  be  to  him  that  directs  all  tilings,  it  has 
miscarried,  and  I am  at  rest.”  — “ Woman,”  cried 
I,  “ thou  hast  done  very  ill,  and  at  another  time 
my  reproaches  might  have  been  more  severe. 
Oh  ! what  a tremendous  gulf  hast  thou  escaped, 
that  would  have  buried  both  thee  and  him  in  end- 
less ruin.  Providence  indeed  has  here  been  kinder 
to  us  than  we  to  ourselves.  It  has  reserved  that 
son  to  be  the  father  and  protector  of  my  children 
when  I shall  be  away.  How  unjustly  did  I com- 
plain of  being  stripped  of  every  comfort,  when 
still  I hear  that  lie  is  happy  and  insensible  of  our 
afflictions ; still  kept  in  reserve  to  support  his 
widowed  mother,  and  to  protect  his  brothers  and 
sisters.  But  what  sisters  has  he  left,  he  has  no 
sisters  now,  they  are  all  gone,  robbed  from  me, 
and  I am  undone!  ” — “Father,”  interrupted  my 
son,  “ I beg  you  will  give  me  leave  to  read  this 
letter,  I know  it  will  please  you.”  Upon  which, 
with  my  permission,  he  read  as  fallows  : — 

“ Honored  Sir,  — 

“ I have  called  off  my  imagination  a few  mo- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


201 


ments  from  the  pleasures  that  surround  me,  to  fix 
it  upon  objects  that  are  still  more  pleasing,  the 
dear  little  fireside  at  home.  My  fancy  draws  that 
harmless  group  as  listening  to  every  line  of  this 
with  great  composure.  I view  those  faces  with 
delight,  which  never  felt  the  deforming  hand  of 
ambition  or  distress ! But  whatever  your  happi- 
ness may  be  at  home,  I am  sure  it  will  be  some 
addition  to  it  to  hear  that  I am  perfectly  pleased 
with  my  situation,  and  every  way  happy  here. 

“Our  regiment  is  countermanded,  and  is  not  to 
leave  the  kingdom ; the  colonel,  who  professes 
himself  my  friend,  takes  me  with  him  to  all  com- 
panies where  he  is  acquainted,  and  after  my  first 
visit  I generally  find  myself  received  with  increased 
respect  upon  repeating  it.  I danced  last  night 
with  Lady  G — , and  could  I forget  you  know 
whom,  I might  be  perhaps  successful.  But  it  is 
my  fate  still  to  remember  others,  while  I am  my- 
self forgotten  by  most  of  my  absent  friends,  and  in 
this  number  I fear,  Sir,  that  I must  consider  y.ou ; 
for  I have  long  expected  the  pleasure  of  a letter 
from  home  to  no  purpose.  Olivia  and  Sophia, 
too,  promised  to  write,  but  seem  to  have  forgotten 
me.  Tell  them  they  are  two  arrant  little  bag- 
gages, and  that  I am  this  moment  in  a most  vio- 
lent passion  with  them  : yet  still,  I know  not  how, 
though  I want  to  bluster  a little,  my  heart  is  re- 
spondent only  to  softer  emotions.  Then  tell  them, 
Sir,  that  after  all,  I love  them  affectionately,  and 
be  assured  of  my  ever  remaining 

“ Your  dutiful  son.” 

“ In  all  our  miseries,”  cried  I,  “ what  thanks 


202 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


have  we  not  to  return,  that  one  at  least  of  our 
family  is  exempted  from  what  we  suffer.  Heaven 
be  his  guard,  and  keep  my  boy  thus  happy,  to  be 
the  support  of  his  widowed  mother,  and  the  father 
of  these  two  babes,  which  is  all  the  patrimony  I 
can  now  bequeath  him.  May  he  keep  their  inno- 
cence from  the  temptations  of  want,  and  be  their 
conductor  in  the  paths  of  honor.”  I had  scarce 
said  these  words,  when  a noise  like  that  of  a tu- 
mult seemed  to  proceed  from  the  prison  below : it 
died  away  soon  after,  and  a clanking  of  fetters 
was  heard  along  the  passage  that  led  to  my  apart- 
ment. The  keeper  of  the  prison  entered,  holding 
a man  all  bloody,  wounded,  and  fettered  with  the 
heaviest  irons.  I looked  with  compassion  on  the 
wretch  as  he  approached  me,  but  with  horror  when 
I found  it  was  my  own  son.  — “ My  George ! 
My  George  ! and  do  I behold  thee  thus  ? Wound- 
ed ! Fettered  ! Is  this  thy  happiness  ? Is  this 
the  manner  you  return  to  me  ? O that  this  sight 
could  break  my  heart  at  once,  and  let  me  die  ! ” — 
“ Where,  Sir,  is  your  fortitude?”  returned  my 
son,  with  an  intrepid  voice.  “ I must  suffer,  my 
life  is  forfeited,  and  let  them  take  it.” 

I tried  to  restrain  my  passions  for  a few  minutes 
in  silence,  but  I thought  I should  have  died  with 
the  effort.  “O  my  boy,  my  heart  weeps  to  be- 
hold thee  thus,  and  I cannot,  cannot  help  it.  In 
the  moment  that  I thought  thee  blest,  and  prayed 
for  thy  safety ; to  behold  thee  thus  again  ! Chained, 
wounded  ! And  yet,  the  death  of  the  youthful  is 
happy.  But  I am  old,  a very  old  man,  and  have 
lived  to  see  this  day.  To  see  my  children  all 
untimely  falling  about  me,  while  I continue  a 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


203 


wretched  survivor  in  the  midst  of  ruin  ! May  all 
the  curses  that  ever  sunk  a soul  fall  heavy  upon 
the  murderer  of  my  children ! May  he  live,  like 
me,  to  see  — ” 

“ Hold,  Sir,”  replied  my  son,  “or  I shall  blush 
for  thee.  How,  Sir,  forgetful  of  your  age,  your 
holy  calling,  thus  to  arrogate  the  justice  of  Heaven, 
and  fling  those  curses  upward  that  must  soon  de- 
scend to  crush  thy  own  gray  head  with  destruction  ! 
No,  Sir,  let  it  be  your  care  now  to  fit  me  for  that 
vile  death  I must  shortly  suffer,  to  arm  me  with 
hope  and  resolution,  to  give  me  courage  to  drink 
of  that  bitterness  which  must  shortly  be  my  por- 
tion.” 

“My  child,  you  must  not  die:  I am  sure  no 
offence  of  thine  can  deserve  so  vile  a punishment. 
My  George  could  never  be  guilty  of  any  crime  to 
make  his  ancestors  ashamed  of  him.” 

“Mine,  Sir,”  returned  my  son,  “is,  I fear,  an 
unpardonable  one.  When  I received  my  mother’s 
letter  from  home,  I immediately  came  down,  de- 
termined to  punish  the  betrayer  of  our  honor,  and 
sent  him  an  order  to  meet  me,  which  he  answered 
not  in  person,  but  by  his  dispatching  four  of  his 
domestics  to  seize  me.  I wounded  one  who  first 
assaulted  me,  and  I fear  desperately  ; but  the  rest 
made  me  their  prisoner.  The  coward  is  deter- 
mined to  put  the  law  in  execution  against  me ; 
the  proofs  are  undeniable ; I have  sent  a challenge, 
and  as  I am  the  first  transgressor  upon  the  statute, 
I see  no  hopes  of  pardon.  But  you  have  often 
charmed  me  with  your  lessons  of  fortitude,  let  me 
now,  Sir,  find  them  in  your  example.” 

“ And,  my  son,  you  shall  find  them.  I am  now 


204  TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

raised  above  this  world,  and  all  the  pleasures  it 
can  produce.  From  this  moment  I break  from 
my  heart  all  the  ties  that  held  it  down  to  earth, 
and  will  prepare  to  fit  us  both  for  eternity.  Yes, 
my  son,  I will  point  out  the  way,  and  my  soul 
shall  guide  yours  in  the  ascent,  for  we  will  take 
our  flight  together.  I now  see  and  am  convinced 
you  can  expect  no  pardon  here,  and  I can  only 
exhort  you  to  seek  it  at  that  greatest  tribunal 
where  we  both  shall  shortly  answer.  But  let  us 
not  be  niggardly  in  our  exhortation,  but  let  all  our 
fellow-prisoners  have  a share;  good  gaoler,  let 
them  be  permitted  to  stand  here  while  I attempt 
to  improve  them.”  Thus  saying,  I made  an  ef- 
fort to  rise  from  my  straw,  but  wanted  strength, 
and  was  able  only  to  recline  against  the  wall. 
The  prisoners  assembled  themselves  according  to 
my  directions,  for  they  loved  to  hear  my  counsel ; 
my  son  and  his  mother  supported  me  on  either 
side  : I looked  and  saw  that  none  were  wanting, 
and  then  addressed  them  with  the  following  ex- 
hortation. 


XXIX. 


The  Equal  Dealings  of  Providence  demon- 
strated with  regard  to  the  Happy  and 
the  Miserable  here  below.  — That  from 
the  nature  of  Pleasure  and  Pain,  the 
Wretched  must  be  repaid  the  Balance  of 
their  Sufferings  in  the  Life  hereafter. 

Y friends,  my  children,  and  fellow- 
sufferers,  when  I reflect  on  the  dis- 
tribution of  good  and  evil  here  below, 
I find  that  much  has  been  given  man 
to  enjoy,  yet  still  more  to  suffer. ) Though  we 
should  examine  the  whole  world,  wd" shall  not  find 
one  man  so  happy  as  to  have  nothing  left  to  wish 
for  ; but  we  daily  see  thousands  who  by  suicide 
show  us  they  have  nothing  left  to  hope.  In  this 
life  then  it  appears  that  we  cannot  be  entirely  blest, 
but  yet  we  may  be  completely  miserable. 

“ Why  man  should  thus  feel  pain,  why  our 
wretchedness  should  be  requisite  in  the  formation 
of  universal  felicity  ; why,  when  all  other  systems 
are  made  perfect  by  the  perfection  of  their  subor- 
dinate parts,  the  great  system  should  require  for 
its  perfection  parts  that  are  not  only  subordinate 
to  others,  but  imperfect  in  themselves ; these  arc 
questions  that  never  can  be  explained,  and  might 
be  useless  if  known.  On  this  subject  Providence 


206  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


has  thought  fit  to  elude  our  curiosity,  satisfied 
with  granting  us  motives  to  consolation. 

“ In  this  situation,  man  has  called  in  the  friendly 
assistance  of  philosophy,  and  Heaven,  seeing  the 
incapacity  of  that  to  console  him,  has  given  him 
the  aid  of  religion.  The  consolations  of  philoso- 
phy are  very  amusing,  but  often  fallacious.  It 
tells  us  that  life  is  filled  with  comforts,  if  we  will 
but  enjoy  them  ; and  on  the  other  hand,  that 
though  we  unavoidably  have  miseries  here,  life  is 
short,  and  they  will  soon  be  over.  Thus  do  these 
consolations  destroy  each  other ; for  if  life  is  a 
place  of  comfort  its  shortness  must  he  misery,  and 
if  it  be  long  our  griefs  are  protracted.  Thus  phi- 
losophy is  weak  ; but  religion  comforts  in  an  higher 
strain.  Man  is  here,  it  tells  us,  fitting  up  his 
mind,  and  preparing  it  lor  another  abode.  When 
the  good  man  leaves  the  body  and  is  all  a glorious 
mind,  he  will  find  he  has  been  making  himself 
a heaven  of  happiness  here,  while  the  wretch  that 
has  been  maimed  and  contaminated  by  his  vices, 
shrinks  from  his  body  with  terror,  and  finds  that 
he  has  anticipated  the  vengeance  of  Heaven.  To 
religion  then  we  must  hold,  in  every  circumstance 
of  life,  for  our  truest  comfort ; for  if  already  we  are 
happy,  it  is  a pleasure  to  think  that  we  can  make 
that  happiness  unending  ; and  if  we  are  miserable, 
it  is  very  consoling  to  think  that  there  is  a place 
of  rest.  Thus  to  the  fortunate  religion  holds  out 
a continuance  of  bliss,  to  the  wretched  a change 
from  pain. 

“ But  though  religion  is  very  kind  to  all  men, 
it  has  promised  peculiar  rewards  to  the  unhappy  ; 
the  sick,  the  naked,  the  houseless,  the  heavy-laden, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


207 


and  the  prisoner,  have  ever  most  frequent  promises 
in  our  sacred  law.  The  author  of  our  religion 
everywhere  professes  himself  the  wretch’s  friend, 
and  unlike  the  false  ones  of  this  world,  bestows 
all  his  caresses  upon  the  forlorn.  The  unthinking 
have  censured  this  as  partiality,  as  a preference 
without  merit  to  deserve  it.  But  they  never  re- 
flect, that  it  is  not  in  the  power  even  of  Heaven 
itself  to  make  the  offer  of  unceasing  felicity  as 
great  a gift  to  the  happy  as  to  the  miserable.  To 
the  first  eternity  is  but  a single  blessing,  since  at 
most  it  but  increases  what  they  already  possess. 
To  the  latter  it  is  a double  advantage ; for  it  di- 
minishes their  pain  here,  and  rewards  them  with 
heavenly  bliss  hereafter. 

“ But  Providence  is  in  another  respect  kinder 
to  the  poor  than  the  rich  ; for  as  it  thus  makes  the 
life  after  death  more  desirable,  so  it  smooths  the 
passage  there.  The  wretched  have  had  a long 
familiarity  with  every  face  of  terror.  The  man  of 
sorrows  lays  himself  quietly  down,  without  pos- 
sessions to  regret,  and  but  few  ties  to  stop  his  de- 
parture : he  feels  only  nature’s  pang  in  the  final 
separation,  and  this  is  no  way  greater  than  he  has 
often  fainted  under  before ; for  after  a certain  de- 
gree of  pain,  every  new  breach  that  death  opens  in 
the  constitution,  nature  kindly  covers  with  insensi- 
bility. 

“ Thus  Providence  has  given  the  wretched  two 
advantages  over  the  happy  in  this  life,  greater 
felicity  in  dying,  and  in  heaven  all  that  superior- 
ity of  pleasure  which  arises  from  contrasted  enjoy- 
ment. And  this  superiority,  my  friends,  is  no 
small  advantage,  and  seems  to  be  one  of  the  pleas- 


208  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


ures  of  the  poor  man  in  the  parable  ; for  though 
he  was  already  in  heaven,  and  felt  all  the  raptures 
it  could  give,  yet  it  was  mentioned  as  an  addition 
to  his  happiness,  that  he  had  once  been  wretched, 
and  now  was  comforted  ; that  he  had  known  what 
it  was  to  be  miserable,  and  now  felt  what  it  was  to 
be  happy. 

“ Thus,  my  friends,  you  see  religion  does  what 
philosophy  could  never  do : it  shows  the  equal 
dealings  of  Heaven  to  the  happy  and  the  unhappy, 
and  levels  all  human  enjoyments  to  nearly  the 
same  standard.  It,  gives  to  both  rich  and  poor 
the  same  happiness  hereafter,  and  equal  hopes  to 
aspire  after  it ; but  if  the  rich  have  the  advantage 
of  enjoying  pleasure  here,  the  poor  have  the  end- 
less satisfaction  of  knowing  what  it  wras  once  to  be 
miserable,  when  crowned  with  endless  felicity  here- 
after ; and  even  though  this  Should  be  called  a 
small  advantage,  yet  being  an  eternal  one,  it  must 
make  up  by  duration  what  the  temporal  happiness 
of  the  great  may  have  exceeded  by  intenseness. 

“ These  are  therefore  the  consolations  which  the 
wretched  have  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  in  which 
thev  are  above  the  rest  of  mankind  ; in  other  re- 
spects  they  are  below  them.  They  who  would 
know  the  miseries  of  the  poor,  must  see  life  and 
endure  it.  To  declaim  on  the  temporal  advan- 
tages they  enjoy,  is  only  repeating  what  none 
either  believe  or  practise.  The  men  who  have  the 
necessaries  of  living  are  not  poor,  and  they  who 
want  them  must  be  miserable.  Yes,  my  friends, 
we  must  be  miserable.  No  vain  efforts  of  a re- 
fined imagination  can  soothe  the  wants  of  nature, 
can  give  elastic  sweetness  to  the  dank  vapor  of  a 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


209 

dungeon,  or  ease  to  the  throbbings  of  a broken 
heart.  Let  tbe  philosopher  from  his  couch  of 
softness  tell  us  that  we  can  resist  all  these.  Alas  ! 
the  effort  by  which  we  resist  them  is  still  the 
greatest  pain ! Death  is  slight,  and  any  man  may 
sustain  it ; but  torments  are  dreadful,  and  these 
no  man  can  endure. 

“ To  us,  then,  my  friends,  the  promises  of  happi- 
ness in  heaven  should  be  peculiarly  dear  : for  if 
our  reward  be  in  this  life  alone,  we  are  then  indeed 
of  all  men  the  most  miserable.  When  I look 
round  these  gloomy  walls,  made  to  terrify,  as  well 
as  to  confine  us  ; this  light,  that  only  serves  to 
show  the  horrors  of  the  place ; those  shackles  that 
tyranny  has  imposed,  or  crime  made  necessary ; 
when  I survey  these  emaciated  looks,  and  hear 
those  groans,  0,  my  friends,  what  a glorious  ex- 
change would  heaven  be  for  these.  To  fly 
through  regions  unconfined  as  air,  to  bask  in  the 
sunshine  of  eternal  bliss,  to  carol  over  endless 
hymns  of  praise,  to  have  no  master  to  threaten  or 
insult  us,  but  the  form  of  Goodness  himself  for- 
ever in  our  eyes  ; when  I think  of  these  things, 
death  becomes  the  messenger  of  very  glad  tidings  ; 
when  I think  of  these  things,  his  sharpest  arrow 
becomes  the  staff  of  my  support ; when  I think  of 
these  things,  what  is  there  in  life  worth  having ; 
when  I think  of  these  things,  what  is  there  that 
should  not  be  spurned  away  ! Kings  in  their  pal- 
aces should  groan  for  such  advantages;  but  we, 
humbled  as  we  are,  should  yearn  for  them.  1 

“ And  shall  these  things  be  ours  ? Ours  they 
will  certainly  be  if  we  but  try  for  them  ; and  what 
is  a comfort,  we  are  shut  out  from  many  tempta- 

14 


210 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


tions  that  would  retard  our  pursuit.  Only  let  us 
try  for  them  and  they  will  certainly  be  ours,  and 
what  is  still  a comfort,  shortly  too ; for  if  we  look 
back  on  a past  life  it  appears  but  a very  short 
span,  and  whatever  we  may  think  of  the  rest  of 
life,  it  will  yet  be  found  of  less  duration  ; as  we 
grow  older  the  days  seem  to  grow  shorter,  and  our 
intimacy  with  time  ever  lessens  the  perception  of 
his  stay.  Then  let  us  take  comfort  now,  for  we 
shall  soon  be  at  our  journey’s  end : we  shall  soon 
lay  down  the  heavy  burthen  laid  by  Heaven  upon 
us ; and  though  death,  the  only  friend  of  the 
wretched,  for  a little  while  mocks  the  weary  trav- 
eller with  the  view,  and  like  his  horizon  still  flies 
before  him  ; yet  the  time  will  certainly  and  shortly 
come,  when  we  shall  cease  from  our  toil  ; when 
the  luxuriant  great  ones  of  the  world  shall  no 
more  tread  us  to  the  earth  ; when  we  shall  think 
with  pleasure  on  our  suffei’ings  below  ; when  we 
shall  be  surrounded  with  all  our  friends,  or  such 
as  deserved  our  friendship ; when  our  bliss  shall 
be  unutterable,  and  still,  to  crown  all,  unending.” 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Happier  Prospects  begtn  to  appear.  — Let  us 

BE  INFLEXIBLE,  AND  FORTUNE  WILL  AT  LAST 
CHANGE  IN  OUR  FAVOR. 

HEN  I had  thus  finished,  and  my  audi- 
ence was  retired,  the  gaoler,  who  was 
one  of  the  most  humane  of  Ids  profes- 
sion, hoped  I would  not  be  displeased, 
5 did  was  but  his  duty ; observing,  that  he 
must  be  obliged  to  remove  my  son  into  a stronger 
cell,  but  that  he  should  be  permitted  to  visit  me 
every  morning.  I thanked  him  for  his  clemency, 
and  grasping  my  boy’s  hand  bade  him  farewell, 
and  be  mindful  of  the  great  duty  that  was  before 
him. 

I again  therefore  laid  me  down,  and  one  of  my 
little  ones  sat  by  my  bedside  reading,  when  Mr. 
Jenkinson  entering,  informed  me  that  there  was 
news  of  my  daughter;  for  that  she  was  seen  by  a 
person  about  two  hours  before  in  a strange  gentle- 
man’s company,  and  that  they  had  stopped  at  a 
neighboring  village  for  refreshment,  and  seemed 
as  if  returning  to  town.  He  had  scarcely  delivered 
this  news,  when  the  gaoler  came  with  looks  of  haste 
and  pleasure  to  inform  me  that  my  daughter  was 
found.  Moses  came  running  in  a moment  after, 


as  what 


212 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


crying  out  that  his  sister  Sophy  was  below,  and 
coming  up  with  our  old  friend  Mr.  Burchell. 

Just  as  he  delivered  this  news  my  dearest  girl 
entered,  and  with  looks  almost  wild  with  pleasure, 
ran  to  kiss  me  in  a transport  of  affection.  Her 
mother’s  tears  and  silence  also  showed  her  pleas- 
ure. — “ Here,  papa,”  cried  the  charming  girl, 
“ here  is  the  brave  man  to  whom  I owe  my  deliv- 
ery;  to  this  gentleman’s  intrepidity  I am  indebted 
for  my  happiness  and  safety — ” A kiss  from  Mr. 
Burchell,  whose  pleasure  seemed  even  greater  than 
hers,  interrupted  what  she  was  going  to  add. 

“ Ah,  Mr.  Burchell ! ” cried  I,  “ this  is  but  a 
wretched  habitation  you  now  find  us  in ; and  we 
are  now  very  different  from  what  you  last  saw  us. 
You  were  ever  our  friend  : we  have  long  discov- 
ered our  errors  with  regard  to  you,  and  repented 
of  our  ingratitude.  After  the  vile  usage  you  then 
received  at  my  hands,  I am  almost  ashamed  to  be- 
hold your  face ; yet  I hope  you  ’ll  forgive  me,  as  I 
was  deceived  by  a base,  ungenerous  wretch,  who, 
under  the  mask  of  friendship  has  undone  me.” 

“ It  is  impossible,”  cried  Mr.  Burchell,  “ that  I 
should  forgive  you,  as  you  never  deserved  my  re- 
sentment. I partly  saw  your  delusion  then,  and 
as  it  was  out  of  my  power  to  restrain,  I could  only 
pity  it.” 

“ It  was  ever  my  conjecture,”  cried  I,  “ that 
your  mind  was  noble;  but  now  I find  it  so.  But 
tell  me,  my  dear  child,  how  hast  thou  been  relieved, 
or  who  the  ruffians  were  who  carried  thee 
away  7 ” 

‘‘Indeed,  sir,”  replied  she,  “as  to  the  villain 
who  carried  me  off,  I am  yet  ignorant.  Boras  my 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  213 

mamma  and  I were  walking  out,  he  came  behind 
us,  and  almost  before  I could  call  for  help,  forced 
me  into  the  post-chaise,  and  in  an  instant  the 
horses  drove  away.  I met  several  on  the  road,  to 
whom  I cried  out  for  assistance,  but  they  disre- 
garded my  entreaties.  I11  the  mean  time  the  ruf- 
fian himself  used  every  art  to  hinder  me  from  crying 
out ; he  flattered  and  threatened  by  turns,  and 
swore  that  if  I continued  but  silent,  he  intended 
no  harm.  In  the  mean  time  I had  broken  the 
canvas  that  he  had  drawn  up,  and  whom  should  I 
perceive  at  some  distance  but  your  old  friend  Mr. 
Burchell,  walking  along  with  his  usual  swiftness, 
with  the  great  stick  for  which  we  used  so  much  to 
ridicule  him.  As  soon  as  we  came  within  hearing, 
I called  out  to  him  by  name  and  entreated  his  help. 
I repeated  my  exclamation  several  times,  upon 
which,  with  a very  loud  voice,  he  bid  the  postilion 
stop ; but  the  boy  took  no  notice,  but  drove  on 
with  still  greater  speed.  I now  thought  he  could 
never  overtake  us,  when,  in  less  than  a minute,  I 
saw  Mr.  Burchell  come  running  up  by  the  side  of 
the  horses,  and  with  one  blow  knock  the  postilion 
to  the  ground.  The  horses,  when  he  was  fallen, 
soon  stopped  of  themselves,  and  the  ruffian  step- 
ping out,  with  oaths  and  menaces  drew  his  sword 
and  ordered  him  at  his  peril  to  retire ; but  Mr.  Bur- 
chell, running  up,  shivered  his  sword  to  pieces,  and 
then  pursued  him  for  near  a quarter  of  a mile  ; but 
he  made  his  escape.  I was  at  this  time  come  out 
mvself,  willing  to  assist  my  deliverer;  but  he  soon 
returned  to  me  in  triumph.  The  postilion,  who 
was  recovered,  was  going  to  make  his  escape  too ; 
but  Mr.  Burchell  ordered  him,  at  his  peril,  to  mount 


214  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

again  and  drive  back  to  town.  Finding  it  impos- 
sible to  resist,  he  reluctantly  complied,  though  the 
wound  he  had  received  seemed  to  me,  at  least,  to  be 
dangerous.  He  continued  to  complain  of  the  pain, 
as  we  drove  along,  so  that  he  at  last  excited  Mr. 
BureheH’s  compassion,  who,  at  my  request,  ex- 
changed him  for  another  at  an  inn  where  we  called 
on  our  return.” 

“ Welcome,  then,”  cried  I,  “ my  child,  and 
thou  her  gallant  deliverer,  a thousand  welcomes. 
Though  our  cheer  is  but  wretched,  yet  our  hearts 
are  ready  to  receive  you.  And  now,  Mr.  Burchell, 
as  you  have  delivered  my  girl,  if  you  think  her  a 
recompense,  she  is  yours  ; if  you  can  stoop  to  an 
alliance  with  a family  so  poor  as  mine,  take  her, 
obtain  her  consent,  as  I know  you  have  her  heart, 
and  you  have  mine.  And  let  me  tell  you,  Sir, 
that  I give  you  no  small  treasure ; she  has  been 
celebrated  for  beauty,  it  is  true,  but  that  is  not  my 
meaning;  I give  you  up  a treasure  in  her  mind. 

“ But  I suppose,  Sir,”  cried  Mr.  Burchell, 
“ that  you  are  apprised  of  my  circumstances,  and 
of  my  incapacity  to  support  her  as  she  deserves  ? ” 

“ If  your  present  objection,”  replied  I,  “ be 
meant  as  an  evasion  of  my  offer,  I desist ; but  I 
know  no  man  so  worthy  to  deserve  her  as  you  ; and 
if  I could  give  her  thousands,  and  thousands  sought 
her  from  me,  yet  my  honest,  brave  Burchell,  should 
be  my  dearest  choice.” 

To  all  this  his  silence  alone  seemed  to  give  a 
mortifying  refusal,  and,  without  the  least  reply  to 
my  offer,  he  demanded  if  he  could  not  be  furnished 
with  refreshments  from  the  next  inn  ; to  which  be- 
ing answered  in  the  affirmative,  he  ordered  them  to 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


2I5 

send  in  the  best  dinner  that  could  be  provided  upon 
such  short  notice.  He  bespoke  also  a dozen  of 
their  best  wine,  and  some  cordials  for  me.  Adding, 
with  a smile,  that  he  would  stretch  a little  for  once, 
and  though  in  a prison,  asserted  he  was  never  bet- 
ter disposed  to  be  merry.  The  waiter  soon  made 
his  appearance,  with  preparations  for  dinner  ; a ta- 
ble was  lent  us  by  the  gaoler,  who  seemed  remark- 
ably assiduous  ; the  wine  was  disposed  in  order, 
and  two  very  well-dressed  dishes  were  brought  in. 

My  daughter  had  not  yet  heard  of  her  poor 
brother’s  melancholy  situation,  and  we  all  seemed 
unwilling  to  damp  her  cheerfulness  by  the  relation. 
But  it  was  in  vain  that  I attempted  to  appear  cheer- 
ful. The  circumstances  of  my  unfortunate  son 
broke  through  all  efforts  to  dissemble ; so  that  I 
was  at  last  obliged  to  damp  our  mirth  by  relating 
his  misfortunes,  and  wishing  that  he  might  be  per- 
mitted to  share  with  us  in  this  little  interval  of  sat- 
isfaction. After  my  guests  were  recovered  from  the 
consternation  my  account  had  produced,  I requested 
also  that  Mr.  Jenkinson,  a fellow-prisoner,  might 
be  admitted,  and  the  gaoler  granted  my  request 
with  an  air  of  unusual  submission.  The  clanking 
of  my  son’s  irons  was  no  sooner  heard  along  the 
passage,  than  his  sister  ran  impatiently  to  meet 
him ; while  Mr.  Burchell,  in  the  mean  time,  asked 
me  if  my  son’s  name  was  George,  to  which,  reply- 
ing in  the  affirmative,  he  still  continued  silent. 
As  soon  as  my  boy  entered  the  room  I could  per- 
ceive he  regarded  Mr.  Burchell  with  a look  of  as- 
tonishment and  reverence.  “ Come  on,”  cried  I, 
“ my  son,  though  we  are  fallen  very  low,  yet 
Providence  has  been  pleased  to  grant  us  some 


21 6 THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


small  relaxation  from  pain.  Thy  sister  is  restored 
to  us,  and  there  is  her  deliverer  : to  that  brave  man 
it  is  that  I am  indebted  for  yet  having  a daughter ; 
give  him,  my  boy,  the  hand  of  friendship,  he  de- 
serves our  warmest  gratitude.” 

My  son  seemed  all  this  while  regardless  of  what 
I said,  and  still  continued  fixed  at  a respectful 
distance.  “ My  dear  brother,”  cried  his  sister, 
“ why  don’t  you  thank  my  good  deliverer  ? the 
brave  should  ever  love  each  other.” 

He  still  continued  his  silence  and  astonishment, 
till  our  guest  at  last  perceived  himself  to  be  known, 
and  assuming  all  his  native  dignity,  desired  my 
son  to  come  forward.  (Never  before  had  I seen 
anything  so  truly  majestic  as  the  air  he  assumed 
upon  this  occasion.  The  greatest  object  in  the 
universe,  says  a certain  philosopher,  is  a good  man 
struggling  with  adversity ; yet  there  is  still  a 
greater,  which  is  the  good  man  that  comes  to 
relieve  it.  \ After  he  had  regarded  my  son  for 
some  timtf  with  a superior  air,  “ I again  find,” 
said  he,  “ unthinking  boy,  that  the  same  crime  — ” 
But  here  he  was  interrupted  by  one  of  the  gaol- 
er’s servants,  who  came  to  inform  us  that  a person 
of  distinction,  who  had  driven  into  town  with  a 
chariot  and  several  attendants,  sent  his  respects  to 
the  gentleman  that  was  with  us,  and  begged  to 
know  when  he  should  think  proper  to  be  waited 
upon.  “Bid  the  fellow  wait,”  cried  our  guest, 
“ till  I shall  have  leisure  to  receive  him”;  and 
then  turning  to  my  son,  “ I again  find,  Sir,”  pro- 
ceeded lie,  “ that  you  are  guilty  of  the  same  of- 
fence, for  which  you  once  had  my  reproof,  and  for 
which  the  law  is  now  preparing  its  justest  punish- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


217 

merits.  You  imagine,  perhaps,  that  a contempt 
for  your  own  life  gives  you  a right  to  take  that  of 
another : but  where,  Sir,  is  the  difference  between 
a duellist,  who  hazards  a life  of  no  value,  and  the 
murderer,  who  acts  with  greater  security  % Is  it 
any  diminution  of  the  gamester’s  fraud,  when  he 
alleges  that  he  has  staked  a counter  1 " 

“ Alas,  Sir  1 " cried  I,  “ whoever  you  are,  pity 
the  poor  misguided  creature ; for  what  he  has 
done  was  in  obedience  to  a deluded  mother,  who, 
in  the  bitterness  of  her  resentment,  required  him, 
upon  her  blessing,  to  avenge  her  quarrel.  Here 
Sir,  is  the  letter  which  will  serve  to  convince  you 
of  her  imprudence  and  diminish  his  guilt." 

He  took  the  letter  and  hastily  read  it  over. 
“ This,"  says  he,  “ though  not  a perfect  excuse, 
is  such  a palliation  of  his  fault  as  induces  me  to 
forgive  him.  And  now,  Sir,"  continued  he, 
kindly  taking  my  son  by  the  hand,  “ I sec  you 
are  surprised  at  finding  me  here ; but  I have  often 
visited  prisons  upon  occasions  less  interesting. 
I am  now  come  to  see  justice  done  a worthy  man, 
for  whom  I have  £}ie  most  sincere  esteem.  I have 
long  been  a disguised  spectator  of  thy  father’s 
benevolence.  I have  at  his  little  dwelling  enjoyed 
respect  uncontaminated  by  flattery,  and  have  re- 
ceived that  happiness  that  courts  could  not  give, 
from  the  amusing  simplicity  round  his  fireside. 
My  nephew  has  been  apprised  of  my  intentions  of 
coming  here,  and  I find  is  arrived ; it  would  be 
wronging  him  and  you  to  condemn  him  without 
examination : if  there  be  injury  there  shall  be 
redress ; and  this  I may  say  without  boasting, 
that  none  have  ever  taxed  the  injustice  of  Sir 
William  Thornhill." 


218  the  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


We  now  found  the  personage  whom  we  had  so 
long  entertained  as  an  harmless  amusing  compan- 
ion was  no  other  than  the  celebrated  Sir  William 
Thornhill,  to  whose  virtues  and  singularities 
scarce  any  were  strangers.  The  poor  Mr.  Burch- 
ell  was  in  reality  a man  of  large  fortune  and 
great  interest,  to  whom  senates  listened  with  ap- 
plause, and  whom  party  heard  with  conviction  ; 
who  was  the  friend  of  his  country,  but  loyal  to 
his  king.  My  poor  wife,  recollecting  her  former 
familiarity,  seemed  to  shrink  with  apprehension ; 
but  Sophia,  who  a few  moments  before  thought 
him  her  own,  now  perceiving  the  immense  dis- 
tance to  which  he  was  removed  by  fortune,  was 
unable  to  conceal  her  tears. 

“ Ah,  Sir,”  cried  my  wife,  with  a piteous  aspect, 
“ how  is  it  possible  that  I can  ever  have  your  foi- 
giveness  % The  slights  you  received  from  me  the 
last  time  I had  the  honor  of  seeing  you  at  our 
house,  and  the  jokes  which  I audaciously  threw 
out,  these  jokes,  Sir,  1 fear  can  never  be  for- 
given.” 

“ My  dear  good  lady,”  returned  he  with  a smile, 
“ if  you  had  your  joke  I had  my  answer  : I ’ll 
leave  it  to  all  the  company  if  mine  were  not  as 
good  as  yours.  To  say  the  truth,  I know  nobody 
whom  I am  disposed  to  be  angry  with  at  present 
but  the  fellow  who  so  frighted  my  little  girl  here. 
I had  not  even  time  to  examine  the  rascal’s  person 
so  as  to  describe  him  in  an  advertisement.  Can 
you  tell  me,  Sophia,  my  dear,  whether  you  should 
know  him  again  ? ” 

“ Indeed,  Sir,”  replied  she,  “ I can ’t  be  posi- 
tive ; yet  now  I recollect  he  had  a large  mark  over 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


219 

one  of  his  eyebrows.”  — “I  ask  pardon,  Madam,” 
interrupted  Jenkinson,  who  was  by,  “ but  be  so 
good  as  to  inform  me  if  the  fellow  wore  his  own 
red  hair  ? ” — “ Yes,  I think  so,”  cried  Sophia.  — 
“ And  did  your  honor  /'continued  he,  turning  to 
Sir  William,  “ observe  the  length  of  his  legs  ? ” — 
“ I can ’t  be  sure  of  their  length,”  cried  the  Bar- 
onet, “ hut  I am  convinced  of  their  swiftness  ; for 
he  outran  me,  which  is  what  I thought  few  men  in 
the  kingdom  could  have  done.  ” — “ Please  vour 
honor,”  cried  Jenkinson,  “ I know  the  man  ; it  is 
certainly  the  same  ; the  best  runner  in  England  ; 
he  has  beaten  Pinwire  of  Newcastle.  Timothy 
Baxter  is  his  name;  I know  him  perfectly,  and 
the  very  place  of  his  retreat  this  moment.  If  your 
honor  will  bid  Mr.  Gaoler  let  two  of  his  men  go 
with  me,  I ’ll  engage  to  produce  him  to  you  in  an 
hour  at  farthest.”  Upon  this  the  gaoler  was 
called,  who  instantly  appearing,  Sir  William  de- 
manded if  he  knew  him.  “ Yes,  please  your 
honor,”  replied  the  gaoler,  “ I know  Sir  William 
Thornhill  well,  and  everybody  that  knows  any- 
thing of  him  will  desire  to  know  more  of  him.”  — 
“ Well,  then,”  said  the  Baronet,  “ my  request  is, 
that  you  will  permit  this  man  and  two  of  your 
servants  to  go  upon  a message  by  my  authority, 
and  as  I am  in  the  commission  of  the  peace,  I 
undertake  to  secure  you.”  — “ Your  promise  is 
sufficent,”  replied  the  other,  “ and  you  may  at  a 
minute’s  warning  send  them  over  England  when- 
ever your  honor  thinks  fit.” 

In  pursuance  of  the  gaoler’s  compliance,  Jenk- 
inson was  dispatched  in  search  of  Timothy  Baxter, 
while  we  were  amused  with  the  assiduity  of  our 


220  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

youngest  boy  Bill,  who  had  just  come  in  and 
climbed  up  to  Sir  William’s  neck  in  order  to  kiss 
him.  His  mother  was  immediately  going  to  chas- 
tise his  familiarity,  but  the  worthy  man  prevented 
her ; and  taking  the  child,  all  ragged  as  he  was, 
upon  his  knee,  “ What  Bill,  you  chubby  rogue,” 
cried  he,  “ do  you  remember  your  old  friend 
Burchell ; and  Dick  too,  my  honest  veteran,  are 
you  here  ? you  shall  find  I have  not  forgot  you.” 
So  saying,  he  gave  each  a large  piece  of  ginger- 
bread, which  the  poor  fellows  ate  very  heartily,  as 
they  had  got  that  morning  but  a very  scanty 
breakfast. 

We  now  sat  down  to  dinner,  which  was  almost 
cold ; but  previously,  my  arm  still  continuing 
painful,  Sir  William  wrote  a prescription,  for  he 
had  made  the  study  of  physic  his  amusement,  and 
was  more  than  moderately  skilled  in  the  profes- 
sion : this  being  sent  to  an  apothecary  who  lived 
in  the  place,  my  arm  was  dressed,  and  I found 
almost  instantaneous  relief.  We  were  waited 
upon  at  dinner  by  the  gaoler  himself,  who  was 
willing  to  do  our  guest  all  the  honor  in  his  power. 
But  before  we  had  well  dined,  another  message 
was  brought  from  his  nephew,  desiring  permission 
to  appear,  in  order  to  vindicate  his  innocence  and 
honor ; with  which  request  the  Baronet  complied, 
and  desired  Mr.  Thornhill  to  be  introduced. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Former  Benevolence  now  repaid  with  unex- 
pected Interest. 

R.  THORNHILL  made  his  appearance 
with  a smile,  which  he  seldom  wanted, 
and  was  going  to  embrace  his  uncle, 
which  the  other  repulsed  with  an  air  of 
disdain.  “ No  fawning,  Sir,  at  present,”  cried 
the  Baronet,  with  a look  of  severity,  “ the  only 
way  to  my  heart  is  by  the  road  of  honor  ; but 
here  I only  see  complicated  instances  of  falsehood, 
cowardice,  and  oppression.  How  is  it,  Sir,  that 
this  poor  man,  for  whom  I know  you  professed  a 
friendship,  is  used  thus  hardly  ? His  daughter 
vilely  seduced  as  a recompense  for  his  hospitality, 
and  he  himself  thrown  into  a prison,  perhaps  but 
for  resenting  the  insult  ? His  son  too,  whom  you 

feared  to  face  as  a man ” 

“ Is  it  possible,  Sir,”  interrupted  his  nephew, 
“ that  my  uncle  could  object  that  as  a crime, 
which  his  repeated  instructions  alone  have  per- 
suaded me  to  avoid  ? ” 

“ Your  rebuke,”  cried  Sir  William,  “is  just; 
you  have  acted  in  this  instance  prudently  and  well, 
though  not  quite  as  your  father  would  have  done  : 
my  brother  indeed  was  the  soul  of  honor;  but 


222 


TEE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


thou  — yes,  you  have  acted  in  this  instance  per- 
fectly right,  and  it  has  my  warmest  approbation. ” 
“ And  1 hope,”  said  his  nephew,  “ that  the 
rest  of  my  conduct  will  not  be  found  to  deserve 
censure.  I appeared,  Sir,  with  this  gentleman’s 
daughter  at  some  places  of  public  amusement: 
thus  what  was  levity,  scandal  called  by  a harsher 
name,  and  it  was  reported  that  I had  debauched 
her.  I waited  on  her  father  in  person,  willing  to 
clear  the  thing  to  his  satisfaction,  and  he  received 
me  only  with  insult  and  abuse.  As  for  the  rest, 
with  regard  to  his  being  here,  my  attorney  and 
steward  can  best  inform  you,  as  I commit  the 
management  of  business  entirely  to  them.  If  he 
has  contracted  debts  and  is  unwilling  or  even  un- 
able to  pay  them,  it  is  their  business  to  proceed  in 
this  manner,  and  I sec  no  hardship  or  injustice  in 
pursuing  the  most  legal  means  of  redress.” 

“ If  this,”  cried  Sir  William,  “ be  as  you  have 
stated  it,  there  is  nothing  unpardonable  in  your 
offence;  and  though  your  conduct  might  have 
been  more  generous  in  not  suffering  this  gentle- 
man to  be  oppressed  by  subordinate  tyranny,  yet 
it  has  been  at  least  equitable.” 

“ He  cannot  contradict  a single  particular,”  re- 
plied the  Squire,  “ I defy  him  to  do  so,  and  seve- 
ral of  my  servants  are  ready  to  attest  what  I say. 
Thus,  Sir,”  continued  he,  finding  that  I was  silent, 
for  in  fact  I could  not  contradict  him,  “ thus,  Sir, 
my  own  innocence  is  vindicated ; but  though  at 
your  entreaty  I am  ready  to  forgive  this  gentleman 
every  other  offence,  yet  his  attempts  to  lessen  me 
in  your  esteem,  excite  a resentment  that  I cannot 
govern.  And  this  too  at  a time  when  his  son  was 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  223 

actually  preparing  to  take  away  my  life ; this,  I 
say,  was  such  guilt,  that  I am  determined  to  let 
the  law  take  its  course.  I have  here  the  challenge 
that  was  sent  me,  and  two  witnesses  to  prove  it; 
one  of  my  servants  has  been  wounded  dangerously, 
and  even  though  my  uncle  himself  should  dissuade 
me,  which  I know  he  will  not,  yet  I will  see  public 
justice  done,  and  he  shall  suffer  for  it.” 

“ Thou  monster,”  cried  my  wife,  “ hast  thou 
not  had  vengeance  enough  already,  but  must  my 
poor  boy  feel  thy  cruelty  ? I hope  that  good  Sir 
William  will  protect  us,  for  my  son  is  as  innocent 
as  a child ; I am  sure  he  is,  and  never  did  harm 
to  man.” 

“ Madam,”  replied  the  good  man,  “ your  wishes 
for  his  safety  are  not  greater  than  mine  ; but  I am 
sorry  to  find  his  guilt  too  plain  ; and  if  my 
nephew  persists  — ” But  the  appearance  of  Jen- 
kinson  and  the  gaoler’s  two  servants  now  called 
off  our  attention,  who  entered,  hauling  in  a tall 
man,  very  genteelly  dressed,  and  answering  the 
description  already  given  of  the  ruffian  who  had 
carried  off  my  daughter  — “ Here,”  cried  Jenkin- 
son,  pulling  him  in,  “ here  we  have  him ; and  if 
ever  there  was  a candidate  for  Tyburn  this  is 
one.” 

The  moment  Mr.  Thornhill  perceived  the  pris- 
oner, and  Jenkinson  who  had  him  in  custody,  he 
seemed  to  shrink  back  with  terror.  His  face  be- 
came pale  with  conscious  guilt,  and  he  would  have 
withdrawn  ; but  Jenkinson,  who  perceived  his  de- 
sign, stopped  him.  — “What,  Squire,”  cried  he, 
“are  you  ashamed  of  your  two  old  acquaintances, 
Jenkinson  and  Baxter  1 but  this  is  the  way  that 


224  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

all  great  men  forget  their  friends,  though  I am  re- 
solved we  will  not  forget  you.  Our  prisoner, 
please  your  honor,' ” continued  he,  turning  to  Sir 
William,  “ has  already  confessed  all.  This  is  the 
gentleman  reported  to  be  so  dangerously  wounded ; 
he  declares  that  it  was  Mr.  Thornhill  who  first  put 
him  upon  this  affair,  that  he  gave  him  the  clothes 
he  now  wears  to  appear  like  a gentleman,  and  fur- 
nished him  with  the  post-chaise.  The  plan  was 
laid  between  them  that  he  should  carry  off  the 
young  lady  to  a place  of  safety,  and  that  there  he 
should  threaten  and  terrify  her  ; but  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill was  to  come  in  in  the  mean  time,  as  if  by 
accident,  to  her  rescue,  and  that  they  should  fight 
a while,  and  then  he  was  to  run  off,  bv  which  Mr. 
Thornhill  would  have  the  better  opportunity  of 
gaining  her  affections  himself,  under  the  character 
of  her  defen der.” 

Sir  William  remembered  the  coat  to  have  been 
frequently  worn  by  his  nephew,  and  all  the  rest 
the  prisoner  himself  confirmed,  by  a more  circum- 
stantial account;  concluding,  that  Mr.  Thornhill 
had  often  declared  to  him  that  he  was  in  love  with 
both  sisters  at  the  same  time. 

“ Heavens  ! ” cried  Sir  William,  “what  a viper 
have  I been  fostering  in  mv  bosom  ! And  so  fond 
of  public  justice  too  as  he  seemed  to  be.  But  he 
shall  have  it;  secure  him,  Mr.  Gaoler  — yet  hold, 
I fear  there  is  not  legal  evidence  to  detain  him.” 

Upon  this,  Mr.  Thornhill,  with  the  utmost  hu- 
mility, entreated  that  two  such  abandoned  wretches 
might  not  be  admitted  as  evidence  against  him, 
but  that  his  servants  should  be  examined.  — 
“ Your  servants  ! ” replied  Sir  William,  “ wretch, 


TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 


225 

call  them  vours  110  longer : but  come,  let  11s  hear 
what  those  fellows  have  to  say,  let  his  butler  be 
called.  ” 

When  the  butler  was  introduced,  he  soon  per- 
ceived by  his  former  master’s  looks  that  all  his 
power  was  now  over.  “ Tell  me,”  cried  Sir 
William,  sternly,  “ have  you  ever  seen  your  master 
and  that  fellow  dressed  up  in  his  clothes  in  com- 
pany together  ? ” — “ Yes,  please  your  honor,” 
cried  the  butler,  “ a thousand  times : he  was  the 
man  that  always  brought  him  his  ladies.”  — 
“ How,”  interrupted  young  Mr.  Thornhill,  “ this 
to  my  face!  ” — “ Yes,”  replied  the  butler,  “ or  to 
any  man’s  face.  To  tell  you  a truth,  Master 
Thornhill,  I never  either  loved  you  or  liked  you, 
and  I don’t  care  if  I tell  you  now  a piece  of  my 
mind.”  — “Now  then,”  cried  Jenkinson,  “tell  his 
honor  whether  you  know  anything  of  me.”  — “I 
can ’t  say,”  replied  the  butler,  “ that  I know  much 
good  of  you.  The  night  that  gentleman’s  daugh- 
ter was  deluded  to  our  house,  you  were  one  of 
them.”  — “ So  then,”  cried  Sir  William,  “ I find 
you  have  brought  a very  fine  witness  to  prove 
your  innocence : thou  stain  to  humanity  ! to  asso- 
ciate with  such  wretches.  But,”  continuing  his 
examination,  “ you  tell  me,  Mr.  Butler,  that  this 
was  the  person  who  brought  him  this  old  gentle- 
man’s daughter.”  -—  “ No,  please  your  honor,” 
replied  the  butler,  “he  did  not  bring  her,  for  the 
Squire  himself  undertook  that  business ; but  he 
brought  the  priest  that  pretended  to  marry  them.” 
— “It  is  but  too  true,”  cried  Jenkinson,  “I  can- 
not deny  it,  that  was  the  employment  assigned  me, 
and  I confess  it  to  my  confusion.” 

15 


226  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


“ Good  heavens  ! ” exclaimed  the  Baronet,  “ how 
every  new  discovery  of  liis  villainy  alarms  me. 
All  his  guilt  is  now  too  plain,  and  I find  his 
prosecution  was  dictated  by  tyranny,  cowardice, 
and  revenge.  At  my  request,  Mr.  Gaoler,  set  this 
young  officer  now  your  prisoner  free,  and  trust  to 
me  for  the  consequences.  I ’ll  make  it  my  business 
to  set  the  affair  in  a proper  light  to  my  friend  the 
magistrate  who  has  committed  him.  But  where  is 
the  unfortunate  young  lady  herself?  let  her  appear 
to  confront  this  wretch ; I long  to  know  by  what 
arts  he  has  seduced  her.  Entreat  her  to  come  in. 
Where  is  she  ? ” 

“ Ah,  Sir,”  said  I,  “ that  question  stings  me  to 
the  heart : I was  once  indeed  happy  in  a daughter, 
but  her  miseries — ” Another  interruption  here 
prevented  me  : for  who  should  make  her  appear- 
ance but  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot,  who  was  next 
day  to  have  been  married  to  Mr.  Thornhill. 
Nothing  could  equal  her  surprise  at  seeing  Sir 
William  and  his  nephew  here  before  her ; for  her 
arrival  was  quite  accidental.  It  happened  that 
she  and  the  old  gentleman  her  father  were  passing 
through  the  town  on  their  way  to  her  aunt’s,  who 
had  insisted  that  her  nuptials  with  Mr.  Thornhill 
should  be  consummated  at  her  house ; but  stop- 
ping for  refreshment,  they  put  up  at  an  inn  at  the 
other  end  of  the  town.  It  was  there  from  the 
window  that  the  young  lady  happened  to  observe 
one  of  my  little  boys  playing  in  the  street,  and 
instantly  sending  a footman  to  bring  the  child  to 
her,  she  learned  from  him  some  account  of  our 
misfortunes;  but  was  still  kept  ignorant  of  young 
Mr.  Thornhill’s  being  the  cause.  Though  her 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  227 

father  made  several  remonstrances  on  the  impro- 
priety of  going  to  a prison  to  visit  us,  yet  they 
were  ineffectual ; she  desired  the  child  to  conduct 
her,  which  he  did,  and  it  was  thus  she  surprised 
us  at  a juncture  so  unexpected. 

Nor  can  I go  on,  without  a reflection  on  those 
accidental  meetings,  which,  though  they  happen 
every  day,  seldom  excite  our  surprise  but  upon 
some  extraordinary  occasion.  To  what  a for- 
tuitous occurrence  do  we  not  owe  every  pleasure 
and  convenience  of  our  lives.  How  many  seem- 
ing accidents  must  unite  before  we  can  be  clothed 
or  fed.  The  peasant  must  be  disposed  to  labor, 
the  shower  must  fall,  the  wind  fill  the  merchant’s 
sail,  or  numbers  must  want  the  usual  supply. 

We  all  continued  silent  for  some  moments,  while 
my  charming  pupil,  which  was  the  name  I gener- 
ally gave  this  young  lady,  united  in  her  looks 
compassion  and  astonishment,  which  gave  new 
finishings  to  her  beauty.  “ Indeed,  my  dear  Mr. 
Thornhill,”  cried  she  to  the  Squire,  who  she  sup- 
posed was  come  here  to  succor  and  not  to  oppress 
us,  “ I take  it  a little  unkindly  that  you  should 
come  here  without  me,  or  never  inform  me  of  the 
situation  of  a family  so  dear  to  us  both  : you  know 
I should  take  as  much  pleasure  in  contributing  to 
the  relief  of  my  reverend  old  master  here,  whom  I 
shall  ever  esteem,  as  you  can.  But  I find  that, 
like  your  uncle,  you  take  pleasure  in  doing  good 
in  secret.” 

“ He  find  pleasure  in  doing  good ! ” cried  Sir 
William,  interrupting  her.  “ No,  my  dear,  his 
pleasures  are  as  base  as  he  is.  You  see  in  him, 
madam,  as  complete  a villain  as  ever  disgraced  hu- 


228  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


manity.  A wretch,  who  after  having*  deluded  this 
poor  man’s  daughter,  after  plotting  against  the  in- 
nocence of  her  sister,  has  thrown  the  father  into 
prison,  and  the  eldest  son  into  fetters,  because  he 
had  courage  to  face  his  betrayer.  And  give  me 
leave,  madam,  now  to  congratulate  you  upon  an 
escape  from  the  embraces  of  such  a monster.” 

“ O goodness,”  cried  the  lovely  girl,  “ how  have 
I been  deceived ! Mr.  Thornhill  informed  me  for 
certain  that  this  gentleman’s  eldest  son,  Captain 
Primrose,  was  gone  off  to  America  with  his  new- 
married  lady.” 

“ My  sweetest  Miss,”  cried  my  wife,  “ he  has 
told  you  nothing  but  falsehoods.  My  son  George 
never  left  the  kingdom,  nor  never  was  married. 
Though  you  have  forsaken  him,  he  has  always 
loved  you  too  well  to  think  of  anybod}r  else  ; and 
I have  heard  him  say  he  would  die  a bachelor  for 
your  sake.”  She  then  proceeded  to  expatiate 
upon  the  sincerity  of  her  son’s  passion,  she  set  his 
duel  with  Mr.  Thornhill  in  a proper  light,  from 
thence  she  made  a rapid  digression  to  the  Squire’s 
debaucheries,  his  pretended  marriages,  and  ended 
with  a most  insulting  picture  of  his  cowardice. 

“ Good  heaven  ! ” cried  Miss  Wilmot,  “ how  very 
near  have  I been  to  the  brink  of  ruin  ! But  how 
great  is  my  pleasure  to  have  escaped  it ! Ten  thou- 
sand falsehoods  has  this  gentleman  told  me ! He 
had  at  last  art  enough  to  persuade  me  that  my  prom- 
ise to  the  only  man  I esteemed  was  no  longer  bind- 
ing, since  he  had  been  unfaithful.  Bv  his  falsehoods 
I was  taught  to  detest  one  equally  brave  and  gener- 
ous ! ” 

But  by  this  time  my  son  was  freed  from  the  en- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  229 

cumh  ranees  of  justice,  as  the  person  supposed  to  he 
wounded  was  detected  to  be  an  impostor.  Mr. 
Jenkinson  also,  who  had  acted  as  his  valet  de  charn- 
bre,  had  dressed  up  his  hair,  and  furnished  him 
with  whatever  was  necessary  to  make  a genteel 
appearance.  He  now  therefore  entered,  handsomely 
dressed  in  his  regimentals,  and,  without  vanity 
(for  I am  above  it),  he  appeared  as  handsome  a 
fellow  as  ever  wore  a military  dress.  As  he  en- 
tered, he  made  Miss  Wilmot  a modest  and  distant 
bow,  for  he  was  not  as  yet  acquainted  with  the 
change  which  the  eloquence  of  his  mother  had 
wrought  in  his  favor.  But  no  decorums  could 
restrain  the  impatience  of  his  blushing  mistress  to 
be  forgiven.  Her  tears,  her  looks,  all  contributed 
to  discover  the  real  sensations  of  her  heart  for  hav- 
ing forgotten  her  former  promise,  and  having  suf- 
fered herself  to  be  deluded  by  an  impostor.  My 
son  appeared  amazed  at  her  condescension,  and 
could  scarce  believe  it  real.  — “ Sure,  madam,” 
cried  he,  “ this  is  but  delusion  ! I can  never  have 
merited  this ! To  be  blessed  thus  is  to  be  too 
happy.”  — “ No,  Sir,”  replied  she,  “ I have  been 
deceived,  basely  deceived,  else  nothing  could  ever 
have  made  me  unjust  to  my  promise.  You  know 
my  friendship,  you  have  long  known  it ; but  for- 
get what  I have  done,  and  as  you  once  had  my 
warmest  vows  of  constancy,  you  shall  now  have 
them  repeated ; and  be  assured  that  if  your  Ara- 
bella cannot  be  yours,  she  shall  never  be  another’s.” 
— “And  no  other’s  you  shall  be,”  cried  Sir  Wil- 
liam, “ if  I have  any  influence  with  your  father.” 
This  hint  was  sufficient  for  my  son  Moses,  wh^ 
immediately  flew  to  the  inn  where  the  old  gentle- 


2 30  TIIE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

man  was,  to  inform  liim  of  every  circumstance  that 
had  happened.  But  in  the  mean  time  the  Squire 
perceiving  that  he  was  on  every  side  undone,  now 
finding  that  no  hopes  were  left  from  flattery  or 
dissimulation,  concluded  that  his  wisest  way  would 
be  to  turn  and  face  his  pursuers.  Thus  laying 
aside  all  shame,  he  appeared  the  open  hardy  vil- 
lain. “ I find  then,”  cried  he,  “ that  I am  to  ex- 
pect no  justice  here  ; but  I am  resolved  it  shall  be 
done  me.  You  shall  know,  Sir,”  turning  to  Sir 
William,  “ I am  no  longer  a poor  dependant,  upon 
your  favors.  I scorn  them.  Nothing  can  keep 
Miss  Wilmot’s  fortune  from  me,  which,  I thank  her 
father’s  assiduity,  is  pretty  large.  The  articles 
and  a bond  for  her  fortune  are  signed,  and  safe  in 
my  possession.  It  was  her  fortune,  not  her  per- 
son, that  induced  me  to  wish  for  this  match ; and 
possessed  of  the  one,  let  who  will  take  the  other.” 

This  was  an  alarming  blow  ; Sir  William  was 
sensible  of  the  justice  of  his  claims,  for  he  had  been 
instrumental  in  drawing  up  the  marriage  articles 
himself.  Miss  Wilmot,  therefore,  perceiving  that 
her  fortune  was  irretrievably  lost,  turning  to  my 
son,  she  asked  if  the  loss  of  fortune  could  lessen  her 
value  to  him.  “ Though  fortune,”  said  she,  “ is 
out  of  my  power,  at  least  I have  my  hand  to 
give.” 

“ And  that,  madam,”  cried  her  real  lover,  “ was 
indeed  all  that  you  ever  had  to  give ; at  least  all 
that  I ever  thought  worth  the  acceptance.  And  I 
now  protest,  my  Arabella,  by  all  that’s  hgppy, 
your  want  of  fortune  this  moment  increases  my 
pleasure,  as  it  serves  to  convince  my  sweet  girl  of 
my  sincerity.” 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


231 


Mr.  Wilmot  now  entering,  he  seemed  not  a little 
pleased  at  the  danger  his  daughter  had  just  escaped, 
and  readily  consented  to  a dissolution  of  the  match. 
But  finding  that  her  fortune,  which  was  secured  to 
Mr.  Thornhill  by  bond,  would  not  be  given  up, 
nothing  could  exceed  his  disappointment.  He 
now  saw  that  his  money  must  all  go  to  enrich  one 
who  had  no  fortune  of  his  own.  He  could  bear 
his  being  a rascal ; but  to  want  an  equivalent  to 
his  daughter’s  fortune  was  wormwood.  He  sat 
therefore  for  some  minutes  employed  in  the  most 
mortifying  speculations,  till  Sir  William  attempted 
to  lessen  his  anxiety.  — “ I must  confess,  Sir,” 
cried  he,  “ that  your  present  disappointment  does 
not  entirely  displease  me.  Your  immoderate  pas- 
sion for  wealth  is  now  justly  punished.  But 
though  the  young  lady  cannot  be  rich,  she  has 
still  a competence  sufficient  to  give  content.  Here 
you  see  an  honest  young  soldier,  who  is  willing  to 
take  her  without  fortune ; they  have  long  loved 
each  other,  and  for  the  friendship  I bear  his  father, 
my  interest  shall  not  be  wanting  in  his  promotion. 
Leave  then  that  ambition  which  disappoints  you, 
and  for  once  admit  that  happiness  which  courts 
your  acceptance.” 

“ Sir  William,”  replied  the  old  gentleman,  “ be 
assured  I never  yet  forced  her  inclinations,  nor  will 
I now.  If  she  still  continues  to  love  this  young 
gentleman,  let  her  have  him  with  all  my  heart. 
There  is  still,  thank  heaven,  some  fortune  left, 
and  your  promise  will  make  it  something  more. 
Only  let  my  old  friend  here  (meaning  me)  give  me 
a promise  of  settling  six  thousand  pounds  upon 
my  girl,  if  ever  he  should  come  to  his  fortune,  and 


232 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


1 am  ready  this  night  to  be  the  first  to  join  them 
together.” 

As  it  now  remained  with  me  to  make  the  young 
couple  happy,  I readily  gave  a promise  of  making 
the  settlement  he  required,  which,  to  one  who  had 
such  little  expectations  as  I,  was  no  great  favor. 
We  had  now  therefore  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
them  fly  into  each  other’s  arms  in  a transport. 
“ After  all  my  misfortunes,”  cried  my  son  George, 
“ to  be  thus  rewarded  ! Sure  this  is  more  than  I 
could  ever  have  presumed  to  hope  for.  To  be  pos- 
sessed of  all  that’s  good,  and  after  such  an  inter- 
val of  pain  ! My  warmest  wishes  could  never  rise 
so  high ! ” 

“ Yes,  my  George,”  returned  his  lovely  bride, 
“ now  let  the  wretch  take  my  fortune ; since  you 
are  happy  without  it,  so  am  I.  O what  an  ex- 
change have  I made  from  the  basest  of  men  to  the 
dearest,  best ! Let  him  enjoy  our  fortune,  I can 
now  be  happy  even  in  indigence.”  — “ And  I 
promise  you,”  cried  the  Squire,  with  a malicious 
grin,  “ that  I shall  be  very  happy  with  what  you 
despise.”  — “ Hold,  hold,  Sir,”  cried  Jenkinson, 
“ there  are  two  words  to  that  bargain.  As  for 
that  lady’s  fortune,  Sir,  you  shall  never  touch  a 
single  stiver  of  it.  Pray  your  honor,”  continued 
he  to  Sir  William,  “ can  the  Squire  have  this  lady’s 
fortune  if  he  be  married  to  another  ? ” — “ How 
can  you  make  such  a simple  demand  ? ” replied  the 
Baronet,  “ undoubtedly  he  cannot.”  — “ I am  sorry 
for  that,”  cried  Jenkinson  ; “ for  as  this  gentleman 
and  I have  been  old  fellow  sporters,  I have  a friend- 
ship for  him.  But  I must  declare,  well  as  I love 
him,  that  his  contract  is  not  worth  a tobacco-stop- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  233 

per,  for  he  is  married  already.”  — “ You  lie,  like  a 
rascal,”  returned  the  Squire,  who  seemed  roused 
by  this  insult;  “I  never  was  legally  married  to 
any  woman.” 

“ Indeed,  begging  your  honor’s  pardon,”  replied 
the  other,  “ you  were  ; and  I hope  you  will  show 
a proper  return  of  friendship  to  your  own  honest 
Jenkinson,  who  brings  you  a wife,  and  if  the  com- 
pany restrains  their  curiosity  a few  minutes,  they 
shall  see  her.”  — So  saying,  he  went  off  with  his 
usual  celerity,  and  left  us  all  unable  to  form  any 
probable  conjecture  as  to  his  design.  — “ Ay,  let 
him  go,”  cried  the  Squire  ; “ whatever  else  I may 
have  done  I defy  him  there.  I am  too  old  now 
to  be  frightened  with  squibs.” 

“ I am  surprised,”  said  the  Baronet,  “ what  the 
fellow  can  intend  by  this.  Some  low  piece  of 
humor,  I suppose  ! ” — “ Perhaps,  Sir,”  replied  I, 
“ he  may  have  a more  serious  meaning.  For 
when  we  reflect  on  the  various  schemes  this  gen- 
tleman has  laid  to  seduce  innocence,  perhaps  some 
one  more  artful  than  the  rest  has  been  found  able 
to  deceive  him.  When  we  consider  what  num- 
bers he  has  ruined,  how  many  parents  now  feel 
with  anguish  the  infamy  and  the  contamination 
which  he  has  brought  into  their  families,  it  would 
not  surprise  me  if  some  one  of  them  — Amaze- 
ment ! Do  I see  my  lost  daughter  ! Do  I hold 
her  ! It  is,  it  is  my  life,  my  happiness.  I thought 
thee  lost,  my  Olivia,  yet  still  I hold  thee,  — and 
still  thou  shalt  live  to  bless  me.”  The  warmest 
transports  of  the  fondest  lover  were  not  greater 
than  mine  when  I saw  him  introduce  my  child, 
and  held  mv  daughter  in  my  arms,  whose  silence 
only  spoke  her  raptures. 


234  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

“ And  art  thou  returned  to  me,  my  darling/’ 
cried  I,  “ to  be  my  comfort  in  age  ? ” — “ That 
she  is/’  cried  Jenkinson,  “ and  make  much  of  her, 
for  she  is  your  own  honorable  child,  and  as  hon- 
est a woman  as  any  in  the  whole  room,  let  the 
other  be  who  she  will.  And  as  for  you,  Squire, 
as  sure  as  you  stand  there,  this  young  lady  is 
your  lawful  wedded  wife.  And  to  convince  you 
that  I speak  nothing  but  truth,  here  is  the  license 
by  which  you  were  married  together.”  So  say- 
ing, he  put  the  license  into  the  Baronet’s  hands, 
who  read  it,  and  found  it  perfect  in  every  respect. 
“ And  now,  gentlemen,”  continued  he,  “I  find 
you  are  surprised  at  ail  this  ; but  a few  words 
will  explain  the  difficulty.  That  there  Squire  of 
renown,  for  whom  I have  a great  friendship,  but 
that ’s  between  ourselves,  has  often  employed  me 
in  doing  odd  little  things  for  him.  Among  the 
rest,  he  commissioned  me  to  procure  him  a false 
license  and  a false  priest,  in  order  to  deceive  this 
young  lady.  But  as  I was  very  much  his  friend, 
what  did  I do  but  went  and  got  a true  license  and 
a true  priest,  and  married  them  both  as  fast  as  the 
cloth  could  make  them.  Perhaps  you’ll  think  it 
was  generosity  that  made  me  do  all  this.  But  no. 
To  my  shame  I confess  it,  my  only  design  was  to 
keep  the  license  and  let  the  Squire  know  that  I 
could  prove  it  upon  him  whenever  I thought 
proper,  and  so  make  him  come  down  whenever 
I wanted  money.”  A burst  of  pleasure  now 
seemed  to  fill  the  whole  apartment;  our  joy 
reached  even  to  the  common  room,  where  the 
prisoners  themselves  sympathized, 

And  shook  tlieir  chains 

In  transport  and  rude  harmony. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  235 

Happiness  was  expanded  upon  every  face,  and 
even  Olivia’s  check  seemed  flushed  with  pleasure. 
To  be  thus  restored  to  reputation,  to  friends  and 
fortune  at  once,  was  a rapture  sufficent  to  stop  the 
progress  of  decay  and  restore  former  health  and 
vivacity.  But  perhaps  among  all  there  was  not 
one  who  felt  sincerer  pleasure  than  I.  Still  hold- 
ing the  dear-loved  child  in  my  arms,  I asked 
my  heart  if  these  transports  were  not  delusion. 
“ How  could  you,”  cried  I,  turning  to  Mr.  Jenkin- 
son,  “ how  could  you  add  to  my  miseries  by  the 
story  of  her  death  ? But  it  matters  not ; my 
pleasure  at  finding  her  again  is  more  than  a rec- 
ompense for  the  pain.” 

“ As  to  your  question,”  replied  Jenkinson,  “ that 
is  easily  answered.  I thought  the  only  probable 
means  of  freeing  you  from  prison,  was  by  sub- 
mitting to  the  Squire,  and  consenting  to  his  mar- 
riage with  the  other  young  lady.  But  these  you 
had  vowed  never  to  grant  while  your  daughter  was 
living ; there  was  therefore  no  other  method  to 
bring  things  to  bear  but  by  persuading  you  that 
she  was  dead.  I prevailed  on  your  wife  to  join  in 
the  deceit,  and  we  have  not  had  a fit  opportunity 
of  undeceiving  you  till  now.” 

In  the  whole  assembly  now  there  only  appeared 
two  faces  that  did  not  glow  with  transport.  Mr. 
Thornhill’s  assurance  had  entirely  forsaken  him  ; 
he  now  saw  the  gulf  of  infamy  and  want  before 
him,  and  trembled  to  take  the  plunge.  He  there- 
fore fell  on  his  knees  before  his  uncle,  and  in  a 
voice  of  piercing  misery  implored  compassion. 
Sir  William  was  going  to  spurn  him  away,  but 
at  my  request  he  raised  him,  and  after  pausing  a 


236  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

few  moments,  “ Thy  vices,  crimes,  and  ingrati- 
tude,” cried  he,  “ deserve  no  tenderness  ; yet  thou 
shall  not  be  entirely  forsaken,  a bare  competence 
shall  be  supplied  to  support  the  wants  of  life,  but 
not  its  follies.  This  young  lady,  thy  wife,  shall 
be  put  in  possession  of  a third  part  of  that  fortune 
which  once  was  thine,  and  from  her  tenderness 
alone  thou  art  to  expect  any  extraordinary  sup- 
plies for  the  future.”  He  was  going  to  express 
his  gratitude  for  such  kindness  in  a set  speech ; 
but  the  Baronet  prevented  him  by  bidding  him  not 
aggravate  his  meanness,  which  was  already  but 
too  apparent.  He  ordered  him  at  the  same  time 
to  be  gone,  and  from  all  his  former  domestics  to 
choose  one  such  as  he  should  think  proper,  which 
was  all  that  should  be  granted  to  attend  him. 

As  soon  as  he  left  us,  Sir  William  very  politely 
stept  up  to  his  new  niece  with  a smile,  and  wished 
her  joy.  His  example  was  followed  by  Miss 
Wilmot  and  her  father  ; my  wife,  too,  kissed  her 
daughter  with  much  affection,  as,  to  use  her  own 
expression,  she  was  now  made  an  honest  woman 
of.  Sophia  and  Moses  followed  in  turn,  and  even 
our  benefactor  Jenkinson  desired  to  be  admitted 
to  that  honor.  Our  satisfaction  seemed  scarce 
capable  of  increase.  Sir  William,  whose  greatest 
pleasure  was  in  doing  good,  now  looked  round 
with  a countenance  open  as  the  sun,  and  saw 
nothing  but  joy  in  the  looks  of  all  except  that  of 
my  daughter  Sophia,  who,  for  some  reasons  we 
could  not  comprehend,  did  not  seem  perfectly  sat- 
isfied. u I think  now,”  cried  he,  with  a smile, 
“ that  all  the  company  except  one  or  two  seem 
perfectly  happy.  There  only  remains  an  act  of 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


237 


justice  for  me  to  do.  You  arc  sensible,  Sir,”  con- 
tinued lie,  turning  to  me,  “ of  the  obligations  we 
both  owe  Mr.  Jcnkinson  ; and  it  is  but  just  we 
should  both  reward  him  for  it.  Miss  Sophia  will, 
I am  sure,  make  him  very  happy,  and  he  shall 
have  from  me  five  hundred  pounds  as  her  fortune, 
and  upon  this  I am  sure  they  can  live  very  com- 
fortably together.  Come,  Miss  Sophia,  what  say 
you  to  this  match  of  my  making  ? Will  you  have 
him  1 ” — My  poor  girl  seemed  almost  sinking 
into  her  mother’s  arms  at  the  hideous  proposal. 

— “ Have  him,  Sir  ! ” cried  she  faintly.  “ No,  Sir, 
never.”  — “ What,”  cried  he  again,  “ not  have 
Mr.  Jenkinson,  your  benefactor,  a handsome 
young  fellow,  with  five  hundred  pounds  and  good 
expectations  ! ” — “I  beg,  Sir,”  returned  she, 
scarce  able  to  speak,  “ that  you  ’ll  desist,  and 
not  make  me  so  very  wretched.”  — “Was  ever 
such  obstinacy  known,”  cried  he  again,  “ to  refuse 
a man  whom  the  family  has  such  infinite  obliga- 
tions to,  who  has  preserved  your  sister,  and  who 
has  five  hundred  pounds  ! What,  not  have  him  ! ” 

— “ No,  Sir,  never,”  replied  she  angrily,  I ’d 
sooner  die  first.”  — “ If  that  be  the  case  then,” 
cried  he,  “ if  you  will  not  have  him  — I think  I 
must  have  you  myself.”  And  so  saying,  he 
caught  her  to  his  breast  with  ardor.  “ My  loveli- 
est, my  most  sensible  of  girls,”  cried  he,  “ how 
could  you  ever  think  your  own  Burchell  could 
deceive  you,  or  that  Sir  William  Thornhill  could 
ever  cease  to  admire  a mistress  that  loved  him  for 
himself  alone  ? I have  for  some  years  sought  for 
a woman,  who,  a stranger  to  my  fortune,  could 
think  that  I had  merit  as  a man.  After  having 
tried  in  vain,  even  amongst  the  pert  and  the  ugly, 


238  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

how  great  at  last  must  be  my  rapture  to  have 
made  a conquest  over  such  sense  and  such  heav- 
enly beauty  ! ” Then  turning  to  Jenkinson,  “ As 
I cannot,  Sir,  part  with  this  young  lady  myself, 
for  she  has  taken  a fancy  to  the  cut  of  my  face,  all 
the  recompense  I can  make  is  to  give  you  her 
fortune,  and  you  may  call  upon  my  steward  to- 
morrow for  five  hundred  pounds.”  Thus  we  had 
all  our  compliments  to  repeat,  and  Lady  Thornhill 
underwent  the  same  round  of  ceremony  that  her 
sister  had  done  before.  In  the  mean  time  Sir 
William’s  gentleman  appeared  to  tell  us  that  the 
equipages  were  ready  to  carry  us  to  the  inn,  where 
everything  was  prepared  for  our  reception.  My 
wife  and  I led  the  van,  and  left  those  gloomy 
mansions  of  sorrow.  The  generous  Baronet  or- 
dered forty  pounds  to  be  distributed  among  the 
prisoners,  and  Mr.  Wilmot,  induced  by  his  exam- 
ple, gave  half  that  sum.  We  were  received  below 
by  the  shouts  of  the  villagers,  and  I saw  and 
shook  by  the  hand  two  or  three  of  my  honest  pa- 
rishioners who  were  among  the  number.  They 
attended  us  to  our  inn,  where  a sumptuous  enter- 
tainment was  provided,  and  coarser  provisions 
were  distributed  in  great  quantities  among  the 
populace. 

After  supper,  as  my  spirits  were  exhausted  by 
the  alternation  of  pleasure  and  pain  which  they  had 
sustained  during  the  day,  I asked  permission  to 
withdraw ; and  leaving  the  company  in  the  midst 
of  their  mirth,  as  soon  as  I found  myself  alone  I 
poured  out  my  heart  in  gratitude  to  the  Giver  of 
joy  as  well  as  of  sorrow,  and  then  slept  undisturbed 
till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

The  Conclusion. 

HE  next  morning  as  soon  as  I awaked  I 
found  my  eldest  son  sitting  by  my  bed- 
side, who  came  to  increase  my  joy  with 
another  turn  of  fortune  in  my  favor. 
First  having  released  me  from  the  settlement  that 
I had  made  the  day  before  in  his  favor,  he  let  me 
know  that  my  merchant  who  had  failed  in  town 
was  arrested  at  Antwerp,  and  there  had  given  up 
effects  to  a much  greater  amount  than  what  was 
due  to  his  creditors.  My  boy's  generosity  pleased 
me  almost  as  much  as  this  unlooked-for  good  for- 
tune. But  I had  some  doubts  whether  I ought  in 
justice  to  accept  his  offer.  While  I was  pondering 
upon  this,  Sir  William  entered  the  room,  to  whom 
I communicated  my  doubts.  His  opinion  was, 
that  as  my  son  was  already  possessed  of  a very 
affluent  fortune  by  his  marriage,  I might  accept 
his  offer  without  any  hesitation.  His  business, 
however,  was  to  inform  me,  that  as  he  had  the  night 
before  sent  for  the  licenses,  and  expected  them  every 
hour,  he  hoped  that  I would  not  refuse  my  assist- 
ance in  making  all  the  company  happy  that  morn- 
ing. A footman  entered  while  we  were  speaking, 


240  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

to  tell  us  that  the  messenger  was  returned,  and  as 
I was  by  this  time  ready  I went  down,  where  I 
found  the  whole  company  as  merry  as  affluence 
and  innocence  could  make  them.  However,  as 
they  were  now  preparing  for  a very  solemn  cere- 
mony, their  laughter  entirely  displeased  me.  I 
told  them  of  the  grave,  becoming,  and  sublime  de- 
portment they  should  assume  upon  this  mystical 
occasion,  and  read  them  two  homilies  and  a thesis 
of  my  own  composing,  in  order  to  prepare  them. 
Yet  they  still  seemed  perfectly  refractory  and  un- 
governable. Even  as  we  were  going  along  to 
church,  to  which  I led  the  way,  all  gravity  had 
quite  forsaken  them,  and  I was  often  tempted  to 
turn  hack  in  indignation.  In  church  a new  di- 
lemma arose,  which  promised  no  easy  solution. 
This  was  which  couple  should  be  married  first ; 
my  son’s  bride  warmly  insisted  that  Lady  Thorn- 
hill (that  was  to  be)  should  take  the  lead;  but  this 
the  other  refused  with  equal  ardor,  protesting  she 
would  not  be  guilty  of  such  rudeness  for  the  world. 
The  argument  was  supported  for  some  time  between 
both  with  equal  obstinacy  and  good  breeding.  But 
as  I stood  all  this  time  with  my  book  ready,  I was 
at  last  quite  tired  of  the  contest,  and  shutting  it, 
“ I perceive,”  cried  I,  “ that  none  of  you  have  a 
mind  to  be  married,  and  I think  we  had  as  good  go 
back  again  ; for  I suppose  there  will  be  no  business 

done  here  to-dav.”  This  at  once  reduced  them  to 
%! 

reason.  The  Baronet  and  his  lady  were  first  mar- 
ried, and  then  my  son  and  his  lovely  partner. 

I had  previously  that  morning  given  orders  that 
a coach  should  be  sent  for  my  honest  neighbor 
Elamborough  and  his  family,  by  which  means, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 241 

upon  our  return  to  the  inn,  we  had  the  pleasure  of 
finding  the  two  Miss  Flam  boroughs  alighted  before 
us.  Mr.  Jenkinson  gave  his  hand  to  the  eldest, 
and  my  son  Moses  led  up  the  other  (and  I have 
since  found  that  he  has  taken  a real  liking  to  the 
girl,  and  my  consent  and  bounty  he  shall  have, 
whenever  he  thinks  proper  to  demand  them).  We 
were  no  sooner  returned  to  the  inn  but  numbers  of 
my  parishioners,  hearing  of  my  success,  came  to 
congratulate  me,  but  among  the  rest  were  those 
who  rose  to  rescue  me,  and  whom  I formerly  re- 
buked with  such  sharpness.  I told  the  story  to 
Sir  William,  my  son-in-law,  who  went  out  and  re- 
proved them  with  great  severity ; but  finding  them 
quite  disheartened  by  his  harsh  reproof,  he  gave 
them  half-a-guinea  a piece  to  drink  his  health  and 
raise  their  dejected  spirits. 

Soon  after  this  we  were  called  to  a very  genteel 
entertainment,  which  was  dressed  by  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill’s  cook.  And  it  may  not  be  improper  to  observe, 
with  respect  to  that  gentleman,  that  he  now  resides 
in  quality  of  companion  at  a relation’s  house,  being 
very  well  liked  and  seldom  sitting  at  the  side-table, 
except  when  there  is  no  room  at  the  other ; for  they 
make  no  stranger  of  him.  His  time  is  pretty  much 
taken  up  in  keeping  his  relation,  who  is  a little 
melancholy,  in  spirits,  and  in  learning  to  blow  the 
French-horn.  My  eldest  daughter,  however,  still 
remembers  him  with  regret ; and  she  has  even  told 
me,  though  I make  a great  secret  of  it,  that  when 
he  reforms  she  may  be  brought  to  relent. 

But  to  return,  for  I am  not  apt  to  digress  thus, 
when  we  were  to  sit  down  to  dinner  our  ceremonies 
were  going  to  be  renewed.  The  question  was 
16 


242  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD . 

whether  my  eldest  daughter,  as  being  a matron, 
should  not  sit  above  the  two  young  brides,  but  the 
debate  was  cut  short  by  my  son  George,  who  pro- 
posed that  the  company  should  sit  indiscriminately, 
every  gentleman  by  his  lady.  This  was  received 
with  great  approbation  by  all,  excepting  my  wife, 
who  I could  perceive  was  not  perfectly  satisfied, 
as  she  expected  to  have  had  the  pleasure  of  sitting 
at  the  head  of  the  table  and  carving  all  the  meat 
for  all  the  company.  But  notwithstanding  this, 
it  is  impossible  to  describe  our  good  humor.  I 
can’t  say  whether  we  had  more  wit  amongst  us 
now  than  usual,  but  I am  certain  we  had  more 
laughing,  which  answered  the  end  as  well.  One 
jest  I particularly  remember : old  Mr.  Wilmot 
drinking  to  Moses,  whose  head  was  turned  another 
way,  my  son  replied,  “ Madam,  I thank  you.” 
Upon  which  the  old  gentleman,  winking  upon  the 
rest  of  the  company,  observed  that  he  was  thinking 
of  his  mistress.  At  which  jest  I thought  the  two 
Miss  Flambo roughs  would  have  died  with  laugh- 
ing. As  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  according  to 
my  old  custom,  I requested  that  the  table  might  be 
taken  away  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  all  my 
family  assembled  once  more  by  a cheerful  fireside. 
My  two  little  ones  sat  upon  each  knee,  the  rest  of 
the  company  by  their  partners.  I had  nothing  now 
on  this  side  of  the  grave  to  wish  for ; all  my  cares 
were  over,  my  pleasure  was  unspeakable.  It  now 
only  remained  that  my  gratitude  in  good  fortune 
should  exceed  my  former  submission  in  adversity. 


Cambridge  : Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  & Co. 


